North and south modern take
by neska-polita
Summary: A 21st century take on the 19th century classic by Elizabeth Gaskell.
1. Wedding and farewell

Author Note: This story was originally published between June and August 2012 and thoroughly revised and edited a little later. The author notes at the end of the chapters were also edited to a less conversational and more informative tone.

The premise of this story is simple: to bring to modern day most of Elizabeth Gaskell's original published in 1855, and the challenge, if it could be called so, is to be as exhaustive as possible regarding characters, situations and dynamics. I think it's quite economical to use several first person voices so that will be the style.

The story has quite a few inaccuracies and inconsistencies. I'm not an English native speaker and I'm more familiar with American English so I stick with what I know best (from spelling to how to write dates and names like "convenience store"). As I'm not American either I'm preserving the original's geographical settings. I believe this could be quite jarring to British readers. Also, in a few stances I'm being quite superficial and/or I resource to stereotypes... I'm sorry about that!

Everyone who left a message while it was being published has my heartfelt thanks, but there were five people whose help truly shaped this story. They were: user TheBlackSister (Beta Reader for quite a few chapters), user fia-blue (formerly exquisiteimperfection), who helped behind the curtain and cheered from the first chapter, user ArtnScience, who raised a good point, Michelle (user allboysshouldhavelonghair) who assisted with volleyball technical knowledge ;-), and guest valkscot, a British reader who pointed more than a few no-nos. I'm bearing in mind many of their comments to improve this version, which is still far from perfect.

I hope you'll enjoy reading it. Consider the comments section and the PM as the tip jar here! I love to hear your thoughts.

Thank you for reading me, n-p.

* * *

July, 15th.

_Margaret Hale_:

After buckling the straps of my silvery sandals, I check my reflection in the large wall mirror for a last time before leaving this hotel room.

A woman in her early twenties looks back intently. Milky white skin that would have been fashionable a century and a half ago (not much these days though), jet black hair cut in a jaw length neat bob, dark eyes, straight nose over a nice wide mouth (normally pink, currently in raspberry shade), upturned chin and rather angular cheekbones. A little taller than the average English woman - even more in high heels, pear shaped, within the healthy BMI range (near the top value actually), I am pleased with my looks though _beautiful _is not the word that comes to mind when people describe me. I don't mind, of course, it's just how it is.

I'm decked in a royal blue taffeta dress with high waistline and floor length wide hemline. The halter top with plunging neckline makes this elegant dress sexy in a subdued way. I'm wearing silver chandelier earrings and a ring with a pearl in my right hand.

I sigh as I grab my royal blue clutch embroidered with crystals, and I step out of the room turning off the lights as I shut the door. My brother Frederick is waiting for me in the hall and we walk together to the elevators and the party, on the highest storey of this building.

* * *

_Frederick Hale_:

My sister Margaret came into our family by effect of my own sheer insistence. I was six years old and my parents were past forty and not interested in having more children on board, but I pleaded so much and so hard that they finally accepted. They explained me that they would adopt a baby so we didn't know when he or she would come to live with us, and I offered my own room to keep the crib if the baby arrived before the nursery was ready.

I obviously thought it would be a boy and that he would be a toddler, living with us in a fortnight or so, but I was already eight the day my parents got the phone call they were waiting for. It had been decided that I'd stay a couple of days with Bertha Dixon, an old friend of my mother's and occasional sitter for me, and I had a great time while my parents brought home a two day old Margaret.

Being an older brother has been a great experience. Margaret was a special girl, sweet and wise beyond her years. Our parents never were the warmest people but Margaret brought out the best in us all, making us feel loved and needed again. I would talk to her well before she could talk back and I'd let her play with my toys. I've always been aware that being with Margaret would teach me things that neither my parents or my friends could so I stayed close. It seems to have worked out: my wife Dolores likes to say that Margaret taught me how to treat a woman properly and she always sends Margaret a nice gift for her birthday.

The first year I lived in Spain, Margaret got very sick and the doctors said they wanted to test us for hereditary conditions. Given that we wouldn't help at all we reached out for Margaret's birth mother, who, unbeknownst to us siblings, had been in touch with our parents through an attorney. It had happened all this time - I felt it like a treason but Margaret, at just fifteen years old, was very calm and said that she understood.

Margaret had obviously known of her birth mother's existence but she wanted to meet this lady, named Sylvia Bell, now a celebrity in the visual artists' world. Our mother was hurt and jealous but Margaret, fully recovered of whatever ailment she had been suffering, told her not to worry and true to her word, nothing changed in her relationship with the rest of us.

I don't know if Margaret and that woman still see each other, or what kind of rapport they have; I only know that my sister used to have many questions and now has some answers.

-"_You look gorgeous_", I say kissing her hand ceremoniously.

-"_You're very kind, my dear gentleman_", she replies in jest. "_Let's go make Dolores proud she married someone so handsome_".

* * *

_Margaret:_

Edith Shaw, who's about to become Mrs. Ian Lennox, is like a sister to me. We were born mere weeks apart and after my twelfth birthday my parents enrolled me in St. Anne's Grammar School, an exclusive boarding school for girls where I slept in the same room with Edith for the next six years. We graduated together and together we went to St. Michael and John's College (sharing lodgings for all four years), where my cousin took anthropology and I took women's studies and law. My dissertation was on the topic of gender violence and entrepreneurial policies.

My parents could never afford St. Anne's: I was awarded an academic scholarship for my outstanding grades and the Shaws paid for the boarding fees, and later on in college I was too on scholarships. While in college Edith's parents paid for the rent and furnishings of our apartment and didn't charge me. I am very thankful for their help but I am aware that it was a deal that benefited both parties: without their assistance I might have attended less exclusive schools but I would have lived at home, and they didn't want Edith left on her own.

My cousin never needed financial help from outside her family, and although she was never a bad student she indeed excelled at the real St. Anne's curriculum. While the school prides itself on its academics it's best known, even in this time an age, for being a reliable supplier of high society wives. Good manners are sacred, of course, but it's more the fine tuning of the voice, the choice of adjectives and the intonation, the body language that identify us unequivocally as ladies and not phonies, the reason that makes a place in the school so prized. Within the school walls lifelong friendships are forged, as well as useful connections and a definite notions of who is who, and what is what.

Attending an exclusive school meant I had only a handful of classmates until college, to whom I always got on well with. Partly because the girls were really nice people and partly because I was Edith's cousin, and nobody ever dared to do anything to upset Eddie, the reigning queen of beauty and glamor.

My friends' winter holidays were spent in skiing resorts and summer holidays were spent in yachts, unless there was a need for skiing - in which case a plane was boarded for the southern hemisphere and the Andean cordillera or New Zealand's mountains were resorted to. My holidays, hot or cold, were spent in my parents home in Oxford, where my father taught English in a small college and my mother worked in a public library.

This duality made one thing clear from early on: it was going to prove very difficult to keep close to my school friends later in life, not because of lack of feeling on neither side but rather an insurmountable difference of interests.

* * *

Most people I've known for the past decade is here, dressed to the nines as if these were their everyday clothes. My classmates from school are here with their fiancés or husbands. My brother and Dolores, his wife. My parents, though I can see my mother is uncomfortable in her rather simple dress. We cannot afford spending money on frivolities and my own dress is a birthday gift from my aunt.

My cousin has grown into a beauty _a la_ Grace Kelly, and she looks perfect and dazzling in her wedding dress and diamonds tiara. She is in love, a perfect love with the perfect husband, and I feel a sudden pang of jealousy for a life where everything is in such neat order. But in its wake leaves the seed of a conviction that will grow in the next days and weeks: my life is only starting and it's going to take me far from this circle of people. This wedding feels like a goodbye to a life of borrowed luxury and undercurrent drama and I'm looking forward to whatever comes next.

During the reception Henry Rowan stations himself near me. He's a good friend of Edith's husband (former law school friend and current junior partners at the same firm) and we have dated for the past two years. For some lapses, weeks at a time, we'd behave like sweethearts: going out for dinner, spending weekends in Paris or Vienna, giving each other birthday presents. But there have been lapses when we'd barely meet or get in touch in which the lukewarmness of my feelings for him would become clear, even when I've never dated anyone but Henry.

I enjoy Henry's company, always had, but I'm not in love with him and I am sure the feeling is mutual.

Henry motions me over to the balcony where fresh flowers grace arrangements on tables and looks thoughtfully over the scenery. I join him in the meditative mood. Soon I'll be moving back to Oxford with my parents and I don't exactly know what I'll be doing in six months. He takes my hand, caresses it and looking at me says "_How would you like to be the one getting married?_".

The question sounds like a highly hypothetical matter and since I don't like this kind of parties I reply laughing "_Oh no, not at all! If I ever marry, I would like it to be in a simple ceremony... more private, definitely_" and turn to lean on the ledge.

His face doesn't change, and without letting go of my hand softly but clearly says "_Margaret Hale, would you marry me?_"

That a good question deserves a good answer is something I firmly believe, even when it's a question I wish I didn't have to hear. I turn to face him, his washed blue eyes, his almost beardless face, his bony constitution... the only man I've known intimately, and this is ugly to confess, yet so unable to arouse me. During the past two years we've had sex more than enough times to know that it is simply unsatisfying, and that it didn't get any better with practice should be a good indicative that this is wrong. We are wrong. There shouldn't be a we, and I foresee the future stretching before us like a bleak mixture of boredom, coldness and withdrawal.

Blaming it on him would be an easy way out but I am not one to say "Look Henry, if you're unable to give me an orgasm then talking of marriage is ludicrous, don't you think?", which is true, but I guess I am half of it too. So I pick my words carefully when I reply "_Henry, I think we're not for each other. We are good friends but I don't love you as a husband. I don't believe we'd be happy together and I'd hate to hurt you_".

He tries to change my mind but I am firm, making it clear that we should stop seeing each other. He doesn't seem terribly put off by my rejection, sad or even annoyed. Matter of fact, I wonder if anything in his world changed at all.

What has changed for me is that I feel like I've lost one of the few friends I had. After the party I reflect while I finish packing my belongings for Oxford, I have a moment of regret and I wish this moment had come later, or never at all.


	2. Movement and change

July, 20th

_Edith Shaw Lennox:_

My husband and I have agreed to check email just once during our honeymoon in this gorgeous Mediterranean island, and he comes back from his e-time with a pretty unsavory piece of news. After wearing Henry thin, rallying for him and having Margaret involved with the wedding planning (and a steady stream of hints dropped on how wonderful it is to get married and all that), she turned down his marriage proposal.

Now, I am aware that Henry is not half as handsome and sexy as Ian is, but Margaret is not so conventional in her beauty either so I suppose that she shouldn't be so picky. It's a shame - it would be so nice to still be the roaring foursome that monopolizes society pages, but well, it's her choice and I respect her.

Her plans for the near future are a little foggy right now. Maybe she already knows that her father has decided to move up north, to a godforsaken place in Greater Manchester where he inherited property; my mother heard through a friend, married to someone who routinely reads those newspapers where inheritances and the like are published. Mum is the word.

Why he doesn't sell the damned place, or rents it, is a mystery to me. Then again, my uncle is lovely but he's a little airheaded sometimes. Now that I'm married I can see why my mother raises eyebrows so often when he is brought up in the conversation. Uncle Richard is nowhere near Ian, who is so good looking and financially sound and will protect me forever instead of forcing me to work in a boring place like a library even after we have children. I mean, I have a degree and could work if I wished so, but could and must mean a world of difference where work is involved.

* * *

August, 1st

_Richard Hale:_

I cannot express how immensely happy I am by Margaret returning to our home. Maria and I thought she'd stay in London, find a job and marry that friend of Edith's husband, or spend a year or so in Cádiz with our son and his wife, but she wanted to come home with us. It is just too good to be true, because life in this house has become rather strained lately.

Retirement hasn't sit well with neither Maria nor I. She's antsy, and swimming in the mornings and book clubs or gardening meetings in the afternoon can barely placate her uneasiness. More than once I've caught her looking at me as if waiting for something, but if it's for something I haven't given her already then there's nothing else I can do.

In turn I am not completely at ease with this old age unemployment either. We receive monthly checks, of course, but our savings were meager and life in Oxford is truly expensive. I am not good at managing money (especially when it is scarce) but I'd detest handing this responsibility over to my wife, so last year I set out to find a solution.

As if answering my prayers I inherited a property, a little house of my grandfather's that an unmarried elderly aunt had been occupying but was entailed to me. The wonderful news had a caveat, though: the house is not in Oxford but in a northern town named Milton, in Greater Manchester, and renting it or selling it wouldn't help us in the long run. I started doing some research (I tried the goggles, that thing on the computer everybody talks about, but I am old fashioned and the geography section of the library was my real source), and decided that we could move up north and I could become a tutor for adult students. I think we could sustain ourselves from our paychecks and that additional income, and the cost of living is cheaper and we wouldn't have to pay rent like we do in Oxford. Sounds like a perfect plan to me.

An old friend of mine, one Dr. Glen Donaldson, whom I still meet at our annual college dinner, has been living there for three decades and tells me there is market for adult learning. He even gave me the name of a patient of his, a fellow who dropped out from high school after a disastrous family situation, got into business but now wants to finish his degree.

The only part about this plan I haven't figured out is how to tell Maria. I am sure she will be happy to have the relief of more money coming in and less going out but I just don't know how to break the news. I trust Margaret will help me with that.

* * *

August, 3rd.

_Maria Hale_:

The Lord expresses Himself in strange ways.

I've prayed long and steady for a change, and today came the signs I was waiting for.

In the morning my husband informed me that he had inherited a small property near Manchester, and along with my daughter they convinced me of the benefits of leaving Oxford and settling there. Not that it felt I had much saying in that - it was presented very much as a _fait accompli,_ but Margaret will stay with us and that is all the guarantee I need to know everything will turn out fine.

In the afternoon I had an appointment at the doctor's office. My dear friend Bertha Dixon came with me because she knew of my wariness towards this particular visit, and we went for tea and pastries after it.

It seems that the Lord has planned for me to join him sooner than I thought. All that story of moving to Manchester doesn't interest me much, I'm engrossed by my own problems. I don't know how I will break the news to Margaret, Richard and Frederick, but I suppose they didn't think of me first when they were planning the move from Oxford.

I just know for sure that I won't meet my grandchildren.

That is probably the only thing that makes me sad right now.

* * *

August, 15th

_Bertha Dixon:_

These Hales! A hasty removal from a home they had been living in for almost three decades, in only three weeks! That shows what my friend's husband is made of... but I shouldn't bad mouth him, much as I think he deserves it.

Fortunately Margaret, their adoptive daughter, took matters in her hands and has arranged almost everything. She has made sure everything was packed and also that the house they'll move into is in good condition.

I would have done it gladly all by myself but I just help and give Maria support. It's the least I can do and I know it will become burdensome in the near future. Her family is still unaware of that, though... they can be so inattentive!

* * *

September, 5th

_Richard Hale:_

We're completely installed in this new old house. The last time I was here I was young and my love for Maria was fresh and untarnished by the hardships we had to endure later. For me, this house represents a bridge from a wonderful moment in the past to a brilliant future.

I believe we'll be very happy here, all of us.


	3. New faces in new places

September, 10th

_Margaret:_

While my mother is away in the kitchen, tinkering and muttering about dinner, my father goes to the internet and cable company to request connection. A glance at his open diary makes me notice that his prospective pupil J. Thorn. is going to show up any moment now. My father forgot this appointment or miscalculated the time, as it often happens lately, and I decide to host this person until he's back.

J. Thorn. stands for John Thornton, a man in his mid thirties who doesn't seem too happy to have me instead of my father receive him. I inform him my father is absent and invite him to wait for him, which he accepts with a short nod, and I lead him into my father's study. Fortunately it's the only room in the house completely unpacked and in order. I sit on one club chair and offer him the other one. As a former student of Miss Halliwell's good manners class I know it is my duty to entertain this person until my father arrives, and I know I'm able to do it.

This large man, whose long legs bump the coffee table no matter how he crosses or bends them, seems more irritated than uncomfortable. He's not exactly handsome, as most young men of my previous acquaintance are, but he's not bad looking either. He has classic cut dark chestnut hair, straight dark brows falling low over clear, deep-set eyes and is clean shaved. He's wearing a navy blue business suit with tie and I disapprove everything about this last item, from the width and length to the texture and pattern. The cuffs and neck of his shirt are spotlessly white but he doesn't ooze refinement. That his nose is slightly crooked and bump doesn't help my perception but it's his lack of conversation skills what show that his manners are far from over polished and closer to a little rough.

Everything I knew about manners with strange men seems fairly irrelevant with him and I don't venture a smile for fear of being perceived as attention starved - or lewd, actually. Miss Halliwell's teachings doesn't seem to be of much help here... my attempts at polite conversation fail, his short and curt answers nipping every subject in the bud. I wish this man could feign interest in a book or the weather, or even leave and come back later, but he doesn't do any of these things. From time to time I think he wants to say something but he doesn't and just stares at me, and it's so rude that I'm starting to get annoyed.

The only positive thing I find about this Thornton person is that he doesn't seem to be one of those _nouveau riches_ who douse themselves in expensive perfume, but I don't perceive any body odor either.

I feel I'm being saved by the bell when my father arrives and he's so amiable that our guest's stony features relax and lets out a smile when he shakes my father's hand, one admittedly amazing smile that makes me wonder if he's younger than I first thought. My father informs me that we won't have internet or cable TV for a couple of weeks, which I regret loudly just to prove that new information should be followed of some reaction of sorts, and he proceeds to invite his new friend to join us for dinner.

My parents' hospitality is something I learned to appreciate after many years of meals in student refectories. Mr. Thornton seems to assume it's only a formality and leaves the house after a private talk with my father in his study. Later on I'll think of our interview and I'll regret having to deal with such an ill-mannered person so frequently but my father seems to like him well enough and he's quite happy from their meeting.

* * *

September, 11th

_Edith:_

Well, Margaret has sent her first message from her new home! I can't hold a grudge against my cousin - she always finds a way to make me smile.

In it she says her father is a lovely quaint scholar of the times where the internet and computers belonged to the labs across campus or the science fiction realm. Yesterday he came back saying they wouldn't get connection for two weeks but this morning the company's van arrived and two workmen, two teenagers actually, plugged they in.

She's happy she'll be able to read my messages and see our lovely pics from our honeymoon, but warns me that they still have to settle down and get household routines going so she's not sure when she'll have time to write, and finishes with a "Please don't get mad at me if I'm silent for a few days."

Oh Maggie, I'll never!

* * *

September, 30th

_Richard:_

Had I known I'd meet Mr. John Thornton, I would have moved to Milton years ago. I would have even agreed to live with my aunt only to have started this acquaintance before.

John Thornton is arguably the best student I've ever had the pleasure to teach. His intellectual curiosity, along with his memory and intelligence, puts him well above the immature college students I've had to deal with for so long. It's hard to believe that he doesn't hold a college degree, even more so that he hasn't finished high school.

According to what he told me one Saturday afternoon, lounging over a coffee after we had finished our lesson, at sixteen he had his eyes set on a scholarship at the Manchester Metropolitan University on account of him being the best student of his class and the fact that he was also a rugby player, and the University wanted a competitive team for the British University and College Sports prize. Smiling he said that he used to wonder which would eventually win, rugby or mechanical engineering; but then his father died suddenly and left the family deep in debt so he quitted school to enter the workforce full time. Thus he'd be able to help his mother shoulder their living expenses and household duties, and take care of a preschooler sister; all in the belief that he'd be able to return at his will and finish his degree, even if the scholarship opportunity had evaporated.

He understood early that he had to repay his father's creditors first if he ever wanted to make a name for himself, regardless the area of activity, so he focused on working and saving money for about five years until going round to each creditor and repaid to the last pound. His employer, the owner of a business specialized in fixing classic cars' engines, was understandably impressed by this young employee who had shown so much perseverance and backbone, and took him under his wing. He had been meaning to start a side business for servicing building machinery (anything from cranes and wrecking balls to concrete mixers), and had Thornton supervise and manage it, and a few years later when he retired simply sold him his share.

Possessing a business acumen apparently absent in his father Mr. Thornton focused on managing the company and less in the shop technicalities, so distancing himself even more of his old dream of becoming a mechanical engineer. But, as he remarked, it's a choice he made with eyes open and not one he would regret.

I would be hard pressed to find a shortcoming in this remarkable young man; the only one I can think of is that, as it usually happens with people who have risen from poverty by their own force of will, he might give the impression he doesn't have patience with less fortunate people. I think he might come across as cold but I am sure that impression is soon proven wrong in the light of his straightforward and unfussy persona.

And I believe Margaret would appreciate him as much as I do, or even more giving he's a rather handsome man and she's a young woman. Far be it from me to play the matchmaker, but what harm can there be in helping these two souls know each other better?

With this idea in mind I tell Maria we should invite John Thornton for a family dinner, and it's fixed for the 10th next month.

* * *

October, 3rd

_Margaret:_

While physical activity was not of paramount importance within the St. Anne's curriculum, they did offer organized sports and there was a monthly game against teams of other schools during the academic year. Though I was more enthusiastic about modern dance, Edith and I played a few seasons in the volleyball team and it's a sport I still enjoy watching and playing.

My mother is going to the local Council Sports Centre's swimming pool in the mornings and tells me the gym is nice, so I pay the general fee and visit the facilities. There is a volleyball court and three nights a week anyone over sixteen can show up and play. I start attending this group which varies widely from time to time. I notice soon that Mondays see many women in her forties, while Wednesdays seem to be teen night. Fridays is the only time a score is kept and the attendance is miscellaneous, with the office crowd shaking off the week from their bones and youngsters coming to start their weekend; often the girls come off the shower and deck themselves in party wear, elaborate make up and hairdos included.

Today we're just five people so we focus on technique: jumps, blocks and serves. Soon I strike a conversation with my partner, a girl of about my age, whom I immediately like. Her name is Elizabeth Higgins but she goes by the old fashioned nickname of Bessy and she doesn't much technique but obviously enjoys the game.

I save Bessy's number in my cellphone to call her later. She works as a messenger, bringing mailing back and forth a few Milton's companies in the back box of her red moped; two rounds a day carrying anything from memos in manila envelopes to boxes of whisky, she chuckles. She came in her moped and I hitch a ride home in the back seat wearing her extra helmet (one with pink plaid and skulls art), which is oddly exhilarating.

She is the kind of acquaintance I would have never made in my previous life and I'm impressed by her frankness and straightforwardness. She tells me her father works at Marlborough Mills (I assume it's an old textile factory but she doesn't elaborate), and there is where she starts the round every morning.

Bessy implies she has a boyfriend of sorts, and when she invites me generically for a drink I wonder if she's trying to introduce me to someone else. She seems genuinely interested in me, though, and I really have to put all of Henry's experience back.

* * *

Note: John Thornton and Margaret Hale's first meeting is described in Ch. 7 "New scenes and faces", told mostly from Mr. Thornton's point of view. Bessy in this story is a merging of different characters so she won't echo the original one. Margaret's schools are 100% fictional.


	4. Darkshire pride

October, 5th

_Margaret:_

My phone chimes with an incoming message. "_Tinkerbell's golden dust"_ mutters my father from behind a newspaper. It's 5:00 pm and he's been relaxing by the fire since his last student of the day left two hours ago. The afternoon light is dwindling rapidly and my eyes go longingly to the disappearing rays of sun falling obliquely on the mantelpiece and sigh.

_-"This is why this part of England is called Darkshire, my dear"_ says my father correctly reading my mood.

-"_Really?_" I turn my face to his newspaper.

-"_No, but it fits_", replies my father. _"Will we have the pleasure of your presence at dinner tonight?"_ he asks putting his paper down and facing me.

I pull the phone out from my pocket and read the message. It's from Bessy, telling me she'll go to the Black Dog Pub & Restaurant tonight and if I want to meet her she'll be there from 7.30 to 9.00. I read it aloud to my father and wonder if this is an unwilling invitation, but he thinks Bessy might be a little shy and encourages me to go out. I tap back a "_Thank you, I'll be there!"_, and then do a quick visit to the grocer's round the corner and let everything ready for my parents dinner: pasta with pomarola sauce, fresh baked bread and apples for dessert.

The clock on my father's old oak desk strikes 7.15 PM when I close the front door behind me. The evening is typical early Fall, the cool air quiet after most folks got home from work or school, the first stars blinking in the dark skies behind a few clouds. I walk to the pub, only eight blocks from home, enjoying the clap of my riding leather boots against the pavement and the warmth of my purple wool jacket. I pull open the Black Dog's door and I let myself soak in its atmosphere for a moment. There's a rock band belting out covers from some audio system mingling with the animated conversations of patrons, the smell of warm food and human breath, the dim yellowish light from the small lamps on the tables cozy and inviting. It's not smart or sleek, probably hasn't been featured in a Michelin guide, but I like it.

It has a typical pub layout, with a long dark wood counter right in the middle of the room effectively dividing the seating space in three areas which are now at less than half capacity. Bessy springs from her chair on the left of the room and comes to me with a broad smile on her face, and after saying hello she motions me back to her table. There's a middle aged man sitting there, of around fifty years old, and two pints of beer resting on cardboard coasters.

-_ "This is my father, Nicholas", _she says standing right to the man.

- _"Hello Mr. Higgins",_ I say stretching my hand before taking my jacket off or seating. _"Pleased to meet you"_.

Nicholas Higgins face is wrinkled and leathery, and his hand is bony, callused and strong. He has barely risen to shake my hand and sits back looking at his daughter, who in turn waves at the waitress. We order our dinners and I have a soda.

- _"Bessy tells me you're from down south,"_ says Nicholas. _"Did you know Milton before moving here?"_

- "_Oh, no"_, I reply, _"This is my first visit to Darkshire. I am from Oxford, but I've lived half my life in London"_.

He nods sagely and I am suddenly struck by the notion that my hosts might have never been far from Manchester, maybe not even in our capital city. "_Milton and Oxford are quite different, I think. Where there are colleges and universities here I see mostly factories and businesses_".

I strike the right nerve. My hosts smile proudly and proceed to inform me that Milton was the first industrialized city of the world. The Higgins family has lived in the Manchester area for more than two centuries and members have worked in every industry seen by the Black Country: mining, cotton mills, railroads construction and operation, and more recently, motor repair and electronics._ "We're tough nuts to crack, we the Higginses"_ laughs Nicholas. I don't let the suspicion that they might be counting non-related Higginses matter and I join him, because I'm fascinated by how these people have survived for generations some of the most unhealthy jobs I can think of. Tough nuts they are, indeed!

They don't ask me any questions of my upbringing but later on I realize they are horrified I might see them as gossipers. They listen attentively as I tell them about my brother, who works as an architect in the south of Spain, and ask if I've ever been to the Alhambra - a place that apparently captivates their imagination like no other.

Nicholas leaves shortly later and we girls stay. Bessy, who is on her way to finish her second glass, fishes her phone from her bag and reads a message that brings up a big smile to her face. _"This is Philip, my son" _she says showing me a picture of a boy of about eight, front teeth missing and a Manchester United jersey.

She asks me if I have a boyfriend and when I say no she says that someone so pretty will have lots to pick from soon in a place like Milton. "_My grandpa would have said you're a bonny lass_", she says and I find the expression endearing but I don't dwell on the prospect. We talk a lot more, about her son and the former boyfriend who never admitted being the father and of Nicholas as a father figure, of the challenges of being a working single mother who dropped out school and the particular trials of working in a male dominated environment. The conversation turns to the frivolous when she asks me about my skin care routines, saying that my genetics are perfect and everyone in my family must have wonderful skin. I then tell her that I really don't know because I'm adopted and for some mysterious reason that seems to impress her very positively.

I am the one who is more impressed. Everything I read about during my years of college, all the research I did for my dissertation, seems weak and silly next to what this woman has lived, the injustice that has fell upon her shoulders but hasn't been able to break her. I think she is amazing and I later talk to my father about her.

* * *

October, 9th.

_Maria Hale:_

My body is tired. Bertha, whose family has a summer house not far from our new home, picks me up every day to go swimming but I don't swim at all. I simply let the water embrace me, help carry my weight and lull my senses. It will become obvious very soon that this weakening disease is spreading over my body and tainting my soul. The day to tell the others is very near.

* * *

October, 10th.

Richard can be stubborn sometimes. He got this idea to invite one of his students for dinner and there is nothing I can say that could change his mind. I am quite uncomfortable with the idea of having a parade of students expecting to be fed but he insists this is a special case. I pray the Lord the evening goes well and with the invaluable help of Margaret, we have everything ready before the appointed time.

I recognize the pupil as the first one Richard had. He arrives at 8.30 sharp and brings an expensive bottle of red wine and a bouquet of lilies and violets for me. Purple is my favorite color and I wonder if Richard shared this piece of information with him or it's simply serendipity. I hand Margaret the flowers to put in a vase and I put out the corkscrew, to let one of the present men uncork the wine.

This man, Mr. Thornton, believes you only need to wish something for it to become true. He says that you have to work hard and you'll have a good life, that the poor are just lazy people. He doesn't know a thing about marriage to a person who promises you the moon and then blames the clouds for not giving it. But I admit he's a remarkable man, and he has a surprising smile that gives a glimpse of a completely different person: young, reckless and able to enjoy the simplest pleasures.

Hard worker as he might be, he is evidently not well educated. He goes as far as to say that life in the academy cannot have sudden upside downs, which is quite insulting for us and enrages Margaret - who tells him clearly that he is wrong.

He takes it gallantly and offers an apology and then it appears to me that he has just noticed her, not as a woman but as a rare specimen to watch under a microscope. Margaret serves the meal and Richard says the prayer. He keeps his eyes down and seems deep in thought for a moment, and the tone of the conversation shifts during the meal.

He asks good questions to everybody, listens to our stories, wants to know our problems and suggests a library committee where I could help should I feel so inclined.

While the most of the evening is pleasant a little incident at the end leaves me a little disconcerted. He is ready to leave and shakes hands with Richard and me, then turns to aMargaret as if waiting for something and after only a second turns away and leaves. I see him through the door's window walking fast towards his car and it seems to me that he's vexed, but I'm not sure exactly what about.

After he leaves we clear the table and Margaret loads the dishwasher. She confirms my suspicions that she doesn't like Mr. Thornton, but she sees why Richard does. She hushes us to bed as a hen would do with her chickens and next morning, when we go down for breakfast, find everything neat and tidy.

* * *

Notes: Margaret gets to know Nicholas and Bessie Higgins better in Ch. 8 "Home sickness" and Ch. 11 "First impressions".

In Ch. 9 and 10, "Dressing for tea" and "Wrought in iron and gold" the reader learns more about the Thorntons and John Thornton's personal story. In Ch. 11, "First impressions", Margaret discusses her impression of Mr. Thornton with her father.

The line_"This is why this part of England is called Darkshire" _was inspired by Jane Brocket (Yarnstom): "North and south".


	5. Circles and cycles

October, 20th

_Bertha Dixon:_

Frederick Hale, the boy I loved as my own, came for the weekend. He is sleeping in a small alcove under the stairs, and I helped arrange the room by bringing some extra furniture I have lying around my home.

I am very happy to see my boy, now a family man, but the reason of his visit is anything but joyful. Tomorrow Maria will tell him, as well Margaret and Richard, that she has been diagnosed with terminal bone cancer and is wary of aggressive treatment. Maria feels she has lived a full life and wants to avoid extending the suffering needlessly so she will probably refuse treatment, as it is her right.

Maria is tired, I know. She married for love and was content with her life until recently when she felt things started to unravel. Frederick left for Spain and she misses him terribly, and then she felt betrayed by Margaret reaching out to her birth mother. But the real coup, I believe, came when she and Richard retired. Something happened then and I suspect I know what was it.

* * *

October, 22nd

_Richard:_

Maria's words haven't sunk yet. I go through my daily motions but I am literal when I say, I can't believe it. The notion of losing Maria surpasses the limits of my human condition.

* * *

October, 23rd

_Margaret:_

My mother will die soon. I wish I had refused the Shaws' help and had stayed home, close to my parents in Oxford. I wish I hadn't been so selfish, I wish we had had more time... but regret has never been more useless than now. I still have her with me and I will nurse her, if not back to health at least to ease her pain and fear.

My father is in shock and I will try my best to look after him during this time of distress, too. Maybe I will teach some of his lessons and I'm definitely taking a sabbatical year. I was looking for a job at non profits, the chamber of commerce, the health ministry and other policy making organizations but I'll put that on wait until later. Thinking "after mama dies" brings a lump to my throat so I try to push it to the back of my mind, but it's exactly what it will be.

As I plan the menus for the week my mind is flooded by good memories, the warm refuge of my mother's arms when I would have a nightmare, her loving care when I fell off my bike and scraped a knee, her unwavering faith in me, her daughter Margaret. She sometimes didn't approve of my choices (I am aware she wanted me to become a lawyer), but she supported them nevertheless.

And I love her, I love her so much. Have I told her enough times?

* * *

_Frederick:_

One of those fears that lurks behind my daily worries is anyone of my close family dying. It's one of those things so terrifying that it doesn't bear thinking, and now it will become true, maybe twice. I haven't shared the news that Dolores is pregnant but in bed rest for fear of giving false hopes, or maybe if the worst happens, of the others' grief over the miscarriage not being enough. Babies aren't real for many people until they are outside the womb but for parents they are very, very real, sometimes even before they are conceived.

Margaret, always the soldier, is going to keep the fort during our mother's illness. To be honest I have still some hope she might recover, that there was a mistake. She looked tired but not so sick.

* * *

Note: Mrs. Hale's mysterious disease (I believe E. Gaskell had something particular in mind) probably begins before the book starts, as Margaret notices that Dixon and her mother spend a lot of time together in her room, door locked, and Dixon seems to have cried afterwards. From the symptoms described I guess it could be stomach, intestine, colon, cervical or uterine cancer, but I have little knowledge so it's pretty much a wild guess. The treatment of the diseases and death among different classes is one very interesting topic in the original story, which gets completely washed out in my version because I'm not killing Bessy Higgins.

The original story's Dr. Donaldson sees Mrs. Hale for the first time in Ch. 16 "The shadow of death" and breaks the news to Margaret, in spite of her mother requesting the opposite. "_He spoke two short sentences in a low voice, watching her all the time; for the pupils of her eyes dilated into a black horror and the whiteness of her complexion became livid._" The doctor also tells Mr. Thornton, which I find utterly unethical and inappropriate behavior, but I guess doctors back then would yield access to their secrets to people of influence who might be interested in knowing - or maybe it was a licence from the author.


	6. Looming clouds

November, 1st

_Bessy:_

Tough nut to crack.

Dogged, pigheaded, heartless man.

Mr. Thornton is all of that and even more, refusing both to me and father one day out to take Phil to the doctor's office. He thinks that because he didn't finish school and now owns a business, everyone must be like him. Of course, easy for him to say that. He wasn't knocked-up by the first pretty smile that shoved a hand down his pants, the idiot! I'd bet he wouldn't be so rich and airy now if he had had a baby latched to a boob all day and night before he was even allowed to drive a car.

I'm seething and angry and I stop to take a couple of breaths before riding my bike. I don't want to break a leg or worse, add a ticket to my budget. Maybe Mary can take Phil to the doctor or do the morning mail round, but her driving scares the hell out of me and I don't trust her to tell the doctor exactly what's wrong with my boy. I don't want her to come back with antidepressants instead of a lotion to cure that awful rash.

Today is a crappy day but has the promise of a better ending because I'm meeting Margaret at the pub. This Margaret is the most interesting person I've met, so pretty and polite. I sometimes wonder if she's shitting me, if it's all a facade and she laughs behind my back, but then I meet her again and she's so friendly that I forget these thoughts.

If this is all a ruse, then at least I'll enjoy it while it lasts.

* * *

_Margaret:_

The reality of mother's sickness is slowly trickling into our daily life. She spends more and more time upstairs in her room or with her friend Bertha, who has practically moved in. I've taken up some of my father's pupils, but not Mr. Thornton, my father's favorite.

Tonight I met Bessie at the Black Dog and she asked why I seemed so out of spirits, so I told her about mother. She told me her mother died of cervical cancer when she was 14 years old and that she got pregnant only a year later. I suppose that she had the worst possible introduction to female genital anatomy, contraception and sex education, but that's a thought I keep to myself.

In turn, she has problems of her own. She needs a day out to take her kid to the doctor but can't not show up to work. I offer to take him and she says she'll think it over. After all, hospitals are likely to become my natural habitat shortly.

* * *

November, 4th

_Richard:_

As it often happens, Mr. Thornton's lesson has morphed into something else entirely. We've had a very interesting conversation on managing capital and human resources, and how sometimes kicking someone out was mostly beneficial to the rest of the workers.

He believes that principles are fine, but as he explains, how do you get the job done when your employee is allowed a day off whenever he or she sneezes? And if your employee is absent and the job is not done, how do you keep your clients?

Margaret has arrived home and is sorting the mailing while we have this discussion. Mr. Thornton invites her to join us but I think he regrets doing it later. They butt heads over labourer's rights and profits, women as workers, over capitalism and environmentalism, global and local. It seems they got into a Gordian knot.

But this time Mr. Thornton emerges victorious from their sparring. His argument was so disarming that even he seems surprised of its effectiveness to end the discussion. He simply says that the system is already there and it's his duty, as business owner, to make the best of it for everyone; and that means, simply, everyone. He adds that another social and economic system wouldn't necessarily mean that everyone would have the same opportunities; matter of fact, he argues, it's this highly evolved system of social welfare what allows less than profitable opportunities to exist. Under other circumstances people like Bessy Higgins couldn't even get out their homes, let alone have a job.

Margaret's face looks as if someone (Mr. Thornton actually) had put duct tape on her mouth. She seems mightily displeased but she smiles politely and stays with us until the lesson is over, when she sees Mr. Thornton out.

I just hope she didn't kick him the the rear after he stepped out.


	7. Patients and friends

November, 10th

_Richard Hale:_

Earlier today Maria asked if I could call Dr. Donaldson because she wanted to talk to a doctor she could also trust as a friend. I phoned my friend's home and I'm told by his wife that he was out but she'd tell him I called. About half an hour later he called back and told me he'd come round past 4.00 pm, and that's fine with me because I'd be done with my lessons by then.

Teaching lessons to private pupils is proving more taxing than anticipated but thankfully Margaret is helping. I wasn't aware of how much she likes modern English literature and 20th century philosophy, the lessons she took from my lot.

Margaret is not home this afternoon but Bertha "Dixie" Dixon is folding laundry and keeping Maria company. My last student is Mr. Thornton, and Glen, that is, Dr. Donaldson arrives as the former leaves the study.

- "_Richard, good afternoon_", says the doctor and while shaking my hand he catches sight of Mr. Thornton leaving. "_Hey mate, how are you?_"

-"_Hello Glen_", replies Mr. Thornton with a smile and both men share a half hug.

-"_Your patient here is a brilliant student"_ I interject only half jokingly.

-_"Patient?"_ frowns Glen, "_I don't think John has ever needed a doctor."_ Mr. Thornton shakes his head slightly, grinning. "_No, he's good friends with Daniel, my oldest son. They were as thick as thieves growing up, weren't you?"_

-"_Quite right. How is Martha?_"

-"_She's over the moon with the news"_ laughs the good doctor. "_My son is getting married... no, not his friend, my youngest son Charlie" _he clarifies. He then goes on, "_Daniel is a computer engineer and he works at the Metropolitan Police, setting their computers and keeping their system safe from hackers. Charlie followed his father's steps into medicine". _His chest seem to swell in fatherly pride but he shakes it off quickly and is back to business in the blink of an eye.

I remember the Donaldsons had a boy of about Frederick's age, Charles. I don't recall them having an older one, but then again I would see Glen just once a year and we would talk about other things.

Mr. Thornton leaves and Glen goes upstairs, where he spends about half an hour with Maria. By the time he comes down Margaret is back and she insists we should talk to him about Maria's disease. I nod while she asks about pain therapies and narcotics but my mind is not here. My mind is in the past, in one summer picnic we took in the happy early days of our marriage, when we were young and life was pretty.

* * *

November, 12th

_Daniel Donaldson:_

The western civilization has long realized, though it's seldom mentioned, the real importance of alcohol in social life. Excesses are normally bad and all they say about impaired driving is true more often than not, but if it wasn't for beer (a generous amount actually) I wouldn't be having this conversation with my friend John "the Thorn" Thornton.

Last week my brother announced that he's getting married to his longtime girlfriend and I was asked to perform duties as best man, which brought the conversation over the other time I performed such task, a decade ago, at the Thorn's wedding. Chloe was a pretty woman a couple of years older, and they had been seeing each other for a while when they moved in together and announced their engagement. It had seemed a little rushed to me and in hindsight I was right. John's company was taking off and he worked mad hours - he still works more than any of his employees, and Chloe wasn't happy. After a year or so of marriage they had a big fight, he moved out (crashed at my place for a couple of weeks) and a little after that Chloe left Milton for good. The divorce was final later that year.

John had been twenty-five years old when he became officially divorced and threw himself with body and soul to his business. About how he took the failure of his marriage, I can only say it wasn't with resentment. I never knew what the big fight was about, and that he still refuses to refer to Chloe as a bitch (which she amply deserves, if you ask me) speaks volumes about his character - though exactly what it says, I don't know.

My friend is drying his third beer, the one that inspires him to speak up should he have something to say. So far our eyes have been glued to the match on the big screen on the opposite wall and we've been discussing football, foreign players and racism, and FIFA's regulations of no use of cameras, which as everybody knows stole the 2010 World Cup from England.

-"_So Charlie is finally tying the knot, isn't he?_" he asks conversationally.

-"_Seems so. Took his time to make up his mind, didn't he?_", I reply

-"_Mmmmh, I don't know if that's a good idea_", he peers down his drink thoughtfully, "_generally speaking, I mean_" he adds quickly. "_I hope Charlie and Jenny are happy, but sometimes I get wondering the real benefit of living together before getting married._"

-"_What do you mean?_" I'm puzzled, is my friend against sex before marriage? Is he insane?

-"_I sometimes wonder if I had married Chloe at all if we hadn't been living together_", he muses. "_Maybe I would have, but the thing is, I just slipped into marriage... the transition was too simple and it shouldn't have been that. Marriage is a serious matter and there wasn't a moment when I stopped and considered proposing, you know, pondering a rejection, being somewhat unsure of what would happen. Living together is the biggest trap to catch a husband,_" he declares and finishes his beer.

I'm following my friend's train of thought now, even if it's, well, the product of a slightly inebriated mind. To be fair I'm not all that fresh either.

-_"You mean it's like the free trial that starts taking money from your bank account before you realize"_, the comparison is hilarious.

-"_Yes, exactly_" he joins my laughter. "_Though it's more having the chance, or the presence of mind, to find out what your feelings are more than anything else. Or at least to figure out your priorities - a friend, a lover, a housekeeper, someone to have children with, or even a trophy. Feelings or priorities._" He puts his palms up as if they were the plates of a scale. "_When I married Chloe I didn't know my priorities and didn't stop to realize I didn't have serious feelings either. She did have her priorities but didn't bother to check them with me. We didn't stand a chance,_" he concludes.

-"_She was a bitch_" I reply sourly because I haven't forgiven her, "_that's why you didn't stand a chance_".

-"_You still hate her so much,_" he waves for a new round of beer, "_but in all fairness I wasn't in love with her. She couldn't have been too happy with me, don't you think? I thought she was pretty and nice, but I didn't care much for what she really was and wanted._"

I can reply in only one way, and it's with a question. "_And do you know now what's what you want? Priorities or feelings?_"

He smiles again and narrows his eyes. "_I want it all_".

We turn to the game and silence falls over our table while we attack our burgers. When we're able to articulate again the subject is the party Marlborough Mills throws every year in the first fortnight of December. John's sister Fanny, self appointed Marlborough Mill's Public Relations spends about half a year organizing it and, in her view, it pays off. My friend doesn't really seem to care about the party but he gives his sister free rein and a generous budget she takes a lot of mileage from.

-"_Are you bringing any guest to the party?_" he asks. "_You know, the pressure when your brother gets married to follow suit. Aren't you feeling it yet?_" he teases.

The answer is no. I don't expect to leave the party on my own, though. That never happens.

* * *

Note: In the original story Dr. Donaldson is not married. I had to pull Daniel from my sleeve because Mrs. Thornton just doesn't work all that well in a modern setting.


	8. Social calls

November, 20th_  
_

_Margaret:_

This morning I took Philip Higgins to the doctor for a tremendous rash on his back, which I suspect is of nervous origin. I am sorry for this child, who looks miserable and lost, but condescension never helped anyone. I made some notes on my notebook to talk to Bessie, to help Phil find good influences and cultivate, so to speak, his inclinations and talents. You never know what hides behind a scrawny little kid and if given the opportunity into what he or she can blossom.

Bessy invited us for a dinner at her home tonight and I go with my father. Fred is in Milton for a few days and stays at home keeping our mother company.

The moment I set foot on their doorstep I understand how much importance they have appointed to this visit, and I congratulate myself on bringing good wine and flowers because Bessy smile receiving those items could light up a room. She lives with Nicholas and Philip in a flat from the mid seventies, probably housing for factory workers. The whole area looks a bit run down but Bessy's place, which has your mandatory overstuffed flowered old couch in front of a huge boxed TV, has been thoroughly cleaned and every metallic piece gleams showing the effort put into receiving us.

We eat in old china dishes (I would guess this is Nicholas' wedding gift or maybe older) and with silverware that couldn't cut water but looks very pretty. I'm flattered and touched by my friend's attentiveness, and this evening feels more special to me that the old ones in expensive restaurants back when I lived with Edith.

My father and Nicholas discuss the economy, and Nicholas enlightens my father (and me too) with a whole new perspective on Milton's history and development. Nicholas thinks that the workers deserve more credit than they receive and quantifies how the unions have improved his quality of life. I see my father sometimes has difficulty understanding Nicholas, who talks very quickly and with plenty of broad Manc interspersed, but he follows with great interest and see a very unlikely friendship budding between they two.

Nicholas has worked for more than four decades and tells us the story of Marlborough Mills. The street where it is located, Queen Victoria Ave. used to be part of an older street named after the Duke of Marlborough where there used to be one of the largest cotton mills of the area, founded around 1850 and closed after the great depression in 1934. The warehouses survived demolition by being used for storage until the early 1980, when some optimistic architects renovated the interiors and attempted to sale them very expensively. It didn't work out that way and stayed empty for almost two decades - everyone thought that developers would torn it down and build offices but Thornton's company occupied the premises and took the name. By the way they talk about Mr. Thornton I don't judge it wise to mention our proximity to him and apparently my father shares the sentiment.

We try to include Phil in the conversation but he is shy, which is so much better than withdrawn. After dinner we adults keep talking and he is excused from the table; when we're putting our coats to leave he rushes back from his room with a paper in his hand, which he thrusts at me. It falls at my feet and he blushes and runs back to his room, slamming the door. I pick up the paper and find a wonderfully descriptive drawing of the doctor's office, with every patient and nurse we saw there and we two hand in hand with big lopsided smiles.

I thank him from his door. We called a cab and ride home in a few minutes, in which I ask my father if he sees Mr. Thornton under a new light now. He replies that he's not silly and he is aware of the lights and shadows of his position.

-"_And what about you?_", he asks in turn, "_are you liking Mr. Thornton a little better now?_"

-"_Oh, he's my first olive, papa," _I reply, _"let me make a face while I swallow it_".

When we arrive home I go to bed with my laptop and find two new emails to be read. One arrived to my father's email account from Marlborough Mills Repair Shop inviting us three to a end of the year party, on the 8th of next month. The other one is from Sylvia, inviting me to the opening of her new exhibit at a modernist gallery in London the 11th. I don't think we'll go to the first one but I reply to the second with a long message.


	9. Thornton's party

December, 8th:

Margaret:

I thought we would excuse ourselves from this social event but my mother, of all people, was very serious when she urged us to accept the invitation. She enjoyed helping me with my hair and make up and gave me her pearl earrings to wear. I think her happiness was enough to justify our coming.

By the look of it Marlborough Mills' annual party is the place to be tonight in Milton. Everybody who's anybody is here and I can't help comparing their demeanor to what I was used to, back in my days with Edith. Eddie's wedding was only a few months ago, yet it feels it's been years... until I think of Henry, whom I haven't missed one bit in all this time. My certainty that we weren't meant for each other hasn't wavered but sometimes I catch myself wishing I had been wrong.

But my choices have always been mine to make and being in Milton and attending this event attired in my best party apparel (Eddie's wedding's, of course) has been one of them, one I am determined not to regret. These people are not going to have the manners or tastes I grew up with and that's just as well since I always found those stifling.

My father is wearing his old formal suit and he is worried and tired, so I know our evening is going to be short. That makes the prospect even more enticing.

We are greeted by Mrs. Thornton and Fanny Thornton, mother and sister of my father's star student. I don't see any sympathy in the older lady's face and I suppose her son's character should be introduction enough. The sister, though, is another story.

She is good looking and young, about my age perhaps. She's slim (almost thin), all toned muscle and deep, even tan. She's wearing a dress with a plunging neckline like the one I'm wearing, but shorter, brighter, and her golden stiletto shoes bookend with gold hoop earrings. The look is completed with blond hair gathered up her head, bright make up, and an open, easy going persona that couldn't be farther from her closer relatives.

Unlike her brother (and probably unlike their mother too), she's completely capable of carrying out a polite conversation on trivial subjects with a stranger and it's a relief. We have been exchanging pleasantries for a few moments with my father standing by my side when our host approaches to greet us. He gives a quick peck on the cheek to all three ladies and I suspect he only meant it for his mother and sister but kept going, and shakes my father's hand with his rare smile making an appearance or two. A little more familiarity seems fitting tonight, making this social meeting smoother.

Fanny Thornton is more talkative but I can tell she's a little nervous. I wonder if this is the highlight of her social calendar but I have complete faith in her ability to shine. It crosses my mind that Fanny is like Edith under a different set of circumstances. Yes, she'd absolutely adore my cousin's lifestyle, warts and all. We talk a little more and she excuses herself to greet other people and I'm left alone to observe.

And alone among this multitude of people, maybe one hundred, is how I spend most of the evening. My father and Dr. Donaldson are sitting in a less noisy area talking to Mrs. Thornton, whose knitted brows, I'm sure, match my father's spirits. I walk around the floor, slowly, with a glass of champagne in my hand (perfecting the art of teetotaling), never losing sight of my father in case he needs me but not staying too close either.

I engage in short conversations with people of different ages. Two girls of about five years old tell me, starry eyed, that I look like a princess from a book of theirs. A woman in her thirties chasing her toddler around also compliments my dress and we chat a little before her child starts crying inconsolably. "_He's sleepy and I must take him to bed_," she regretfully informs me as she leaves. A man my father's age or older asks me where I'm from, and in this conversation I get a nice view of the northern hospitality. But he is required somewhere else and I'm alone again.

At the opposite corner of the room a conversation is going on about businesses, markets, trades, bonds and many other things I'm poorly informed about but I come near and listen attentively, fascinated by the vehemence these people express themselves with and so contrasting with the fashionable boredom I've witnessed so often. They argue and they defer to our host, who had been quietly following the rapport, and he replies calmly exposing his ideas so clearly that nobody seems able to keep an opposing view.

It dawns on me now that this is the first time I see Mr. Thornton to such advantage. Maybe because he is my father's student or because he always seems eager to antagonize me, I hadn't noticed how charming and compelling, almost magnetic personality he has. He doesn't need to struggle for his peers' respect; he has it, he knows it, and it gives him a self assurance I had completely missed before.

There's a lull in the conversation. I turn to take an hors-d'oeuvre from a side table and I'm startled when Mr. Thornton talks to me, close at my elbow. Standing side by side I notice how tall he really is, even in high heels my eyes are at his collar bone level - in these very shoes I am my father's height. We'd never stood so close before: a faint musky note reaches me like a whisper and I notice he has the hint of a five o'clock shadow. Though I'd never thought about him in these terms it now occurs to me that he must be really strong, strong as in able to lift very heavy things, adult people included. He is polite and a little formal but as usual he needs to disagree and neutralize my opinion. They were criticizing somebody's policies and when I refer to this absent person as a gentleman, he remarks that we probably understand different things as gentlemen. Acknowledging this disagreement is the closest we've ever been to agreeing on anything.

Our conversation is cut short by a blond man whose appraising eyes favor Fanny Thornton's legs; it seems I am not the most fascinating subject tonight. My father waves discreetly at me and I nod. Mr. Thornton is nowhere to be seen so we bid the mother and sister goodnight and leave for home early.

Lying in bed that night before I slid into slumber I think of Mr. Thornton, of the contradiction of him having succeeded in business but still wanting to finish school - an endeavor my father told me serves no short term practical purpose. Of the contradiction of his rather cold ideas about people in general but the valuable friend he's become to my father and the immense tactfulness he displays regarding my mother's illness. In the twilight of alertness and sleep my objections to his person seem to vanish, and I experience a strange and powerful wave of attraction that radiates from my stomach and its unexpected warmth gives me goosebumps. But then I fall into a dreamless sleep and the next morning it will look like a late night aberration of a tired mind.


	10. Token of love

December, 20th

_Margaret:_

Few people would understand my relationship with Sylvia Bell so I never discuss it with anyone; among other things because there are a handful of facts really hard to stomach. Nevertheless, I understood long ago that life is hard and what makes it worthwhile is love, love in all its forms and shapes, even when love means sacrifice.

What bounds me to Sylvia is love, love in its purest, most primal expression. She is my birth mother, she carried me and nursed me in her womb and gave me up the moment I was born because she knew other people would be better parents than she. She knew that she was making something against her deepest maternal instincts but she also knew the Hales, even if she hadn't met them, were waiting for me and would love me.

And love me they did. I had my suspicions (why did my parents look like everyone's grandparents was the clue), but my father confirmed them when I was five. We were in a wedding and my father said the bride was now in our family because she was loved by us, just like me, who was part of the Hale family because they loved me so much and God had chosen me to be with them.

It never felt strange or awkward and I don't think I'd ever reached for my birth mother if I hadn't been so sick that horrible time. One spring break from school I had hepatitis and my liver looked so bad that the doctors starting looking for a donor within my family. And then my mother, in desperation, reached out for the woman who had given her a daughter.

I was lying in a hospital bed and floating in a cloud of painkillers when I felt someone stroking my hair. A finger would curl a lock around it and would let it slip very quietly. I don't know for how long this must have been going on, maybe just a moment. I was alert and when I opened my eyes I saw Sylvia. For a moment she had that deer in the headlights look in her eyes but recovered and retreated. I raised my hand, and hollered from the depths of the drugged well I was in, "_Don't go_". And she stayed. And we talked.

I didn't need the transplant. My liver recovered and hasn't complained since but I kept in touch with Sylvia. At first I didn't want to make my mother upset so I waited until I started my University studies to start seeing her regularly. She understood and she waited too.

* * *

Sylvia invited me to an exhibit and I saw her art. It didn't look familiar, it didn't ring any bells. Nothing about her, except for her porcelain skin (which is not so peculiar after all), looked familiar: her brown eyes, her coppery hair, her small physique, were all hers and nothing mine. It could have been disturbing but I dwell on it being reassuring. I am a Hale.

She introduced me to her partner, a woman in her mid fifties named Melanie Sanders, and I surmised (correctly) that Sylvia had been raped at a young age, probably 16 or 17 years old. How tough is it to find out that I wasn't the result of clandestine love, or teenage horniness and a defective condom? Not nice, but all things considered I had been nothing but a secondary product of that situation. Sylvia had forgiven life for that traumatic event, and if anything, she was thankful it had taken the blindfold from her eyes to find Melanie. That attitude and mindset was what encouraged me to approach her and stay close.

Melanie and Sylvia are so different that many people are surprised by the strength of their relationship, which was already a decade old when I met them. Sylvia is an artist while Melanie is an investments manager. Sylvia is petite and looks younger, while Melanie is massive and older. Sylvia has an bell like laughter while I've seen Melanie smiling just once.

They own a penthouse in a fashionable London district and a summer house in the New Forest, in an idyllic place named Helstone. I've been there once and it made me think of the Hundred Acre Wood from the Winnie the Pooh tales. Melanie is a wizard with money and I am under the impression they are very wealthy, but they don't squander or flaunt it.

They have made clear, though, that if I am ever in an emergency they can help. Or if I need someone to invest in me. As if they hadn't, already.

* * *

I didn't go to Sylvia's latest opening. She knows my mother is dying and with dignified sensibility offered the emotional containment I need. She listens to my fears and advises on how to have a positive outlook. But she doesn't expect me to ask her to be my mother and I'm thankful. Because if she did she would break my heart.

* * *

A/N: Margaret's views on being adopted were based on a letter by someone named Candace published in the blog PostSecret during July 2012. Sylvia is another character that doesn't echo anyone from the original story; her own personal story (having a child very young, giving it up for adoption, becoming a celebrated artist and reuniting with the adult child) is based on Sinead Cusack and Joni Mitchell's stories.


	11. Celebration in sadness

December, 25th

_Frederick_:

I came to Milton to spend Christmas with my parents and sister. It used to be our favorite celebration: of family, of a year gone by and the promise of a new one, full of things to do, places to see and people to meet. Both Margaret and I would be back from school and some of my best memories with my family belong to this season.

This year my feelings are mixed like never before. Dolores is slowly getting out the pregnancy's danger zone, my first child holding on, my wife's body rounder and softer every day. But the happiness of being a father collides with the pain my mother is enduring and the hard times this home is going through. The traces of this ravaging disease more evident each day, her once safe and competent hands now weak and quivering, her face chalky, her eyes dull and sad.

In spite of my initial reluctance I told the news at the table and my parents were very happy. Margaret got that look in her face that she had sniffed something but she congratulated me wholeheartedly. Later in the evening we got on Skype and talked to Dolores, who now for obvious reasons, stayed home.

I don't know if I will see my mother again; my father is still in denial but my sister Margaret is manning the rudder of this ship with her customary aplomb. When I leave back for Spain I make half hearted promises but she assures me I'm more needed in Cádiz. "_Please call mama often, every other day or so_", she pleads. "_It will make her day; I know it will be hard for you but just five minutes before you cook dinner, will you?_"

On the plane back home I regret not having asked Margaret whether she's seeing anyone. Aunt Anna told me Henry is dating a new girl and if Margaret knows, I hope she isn't crushed.

* * *

_Bessy:_

Christmas is the time of the year when I regret most that my son doesn't have a father, some family who would take him in a home filled with a tree and decorations and crackers and gifts. This year marks a decade since my mother died: she spent her last Christmas in a coma induced by morphine and died the following day.

I know Nicholas has had a steady lover ever since, which is wet and comes in green bottles. I don't bug him much as long as he behaves but this year I simply kick him out and have my sister Mary and her boyfriend come over. We have roast chicken and we give Phil his presents: Spider Man pajamas, an electric car and Margaret's gift, a book on how to draw, a block and crayons.

Phil is elated with Margaret's gift but I don't know if it's because he likes drawing or because it's from Margaret.


	12. Bounces in your court

January, 7th

_Margaret_:

Today is Friday and I really want to burn some energy. Life at home is becoming intolerable, with my mother crying and suffering and my father nursing his own denial. I need a break to focus my mind and body on something else, recharge and plunge right back. My mother encourages me to come to the gym to exercise a little. I phone Bessy but she's not coming... I check my watch and I rush to the volleyball game.

I arrive a few minutes late and the teams are already split so I stand on the sidelines until the referee assigns me to one side. I step into the court and notice that Mr. Thornton is playing volleyball this evening with the other team.

Of course.

Since the night of the party I have seen him a few times here and there. I've been at home at the time of his lesson and opened the door for him, we crossed each other one Saturday in a small bookstore a little far from home and two days later in a convenience store, and once my father sent me to Marlborough Mills on an errand. Only once did we exchange more than a greeting and it was when he informed me that I should read more classics and less best sellers. Not that I care much but the animosity he always displays towards my tastes and opinions is a little unnerving, and I confess I am more than willing to repay him with his own currency.

Mr. Thornton makes a powerful and elegant jump serve and right now, with the score 3-1 in the first set, I'm convinced my team doesn't stand a chance.

* * *

_Daniel:_

Although I am a computer engineer, probably the profession with highest rates of obesity, I'm a rather athletic person. I enjoy sports and it shows in my waistline.

Lately I've been playing basketball at the Sports Centre, Tuesdays and Fridays and sometimes (like today) I persuade John to come with me. John and I go a long way as a teammates, the standout probably that glorious rugby championship when our humble Darkshire team upset the favorite rich kids from the south. Almost two decades ago now... unbelievable how time flies.

We change and go to the basketball court only to find a crew at work there. It seems that a pipe broke and they are fixing it, so tonight's game was obviously suspended without any notice. I suggest going to the treadmills but John finds that boring and we move to the volleyball court, where I know there is an open game on Fridays too.

The people there is so miscellaneous that I can't say, at a glance, whether it's going to be worthwhile or it will just suck. My friend shrugs and we stay. I see a couple of good looking girls so I think this move might have some potential. The referee decides who plays in what team, and we both get in team A. Other guys from basketball who drifted here too are in team B. Chicks are evenly distributed. Teenage boys and menopausal women too.

The game starts with a team B rally and they score. They lose the next rally and when we've won two in a row another player arrives. It's a tall girl wearing volleyball clothes: dark pink top, black shorts, white long socks and shoes. She has her dark hair in a ponytail and a headband matching her top. Initial assessment: young and pretty.

I pass the ball back to the Thorn and I notice he is transfixed. I guess he knows the girl but I have no idea of who she is. He shakes it off and jump serves; Trevor, a guy from basketball returns it with a swift bump, but I block and kill for a 3-1 score.

John serves again but hits the ball too hard and it falls outside team B's court. They score on our fault and it's her turn to serve, which she does on a neat topspin.

Girl can play, evidently. Do I know her?

We win the first set 30-12 and change court sides. I think John will say hello to the girl but he doesn't get near and neither does she. Once in our old side of the court she gathers her teammates around and talks moving her hands ostensibly talking strategy and boosting spirits, and under my breath I ask my friend about her.

John grumbles a reply - which means he's awfully interested in her, whoever she is. Team B is still holding their meeting and we have another moment in which my friend tells me this girl was at his party. I look at her intently: for sure she has a nice rack and great legs but I have no clue. I'd remember those legs and that neck, I think. That neck needs a hickey.

Whatever she said seems to work and Team B wins the second set 30-25 and now she looks very pleased with herself. When her team scores she smiles and her apple red cheeks make her look like a cute sixteen year old girl. After twenty minutes of exercise she's flushed and her skin is glowing with sweat. My friend keeps a blank face but his eyes keep going to her, and one doesn't need to be a mind reader to guess what he's thinking right now.

Oh boy, this is going to be fun.

To no one's surprise Team A wins in four sets, and although Team B puts up a fight its fate was sealed the moment the Thorn and I got on the same team. I don't know if volleyball players shake hands at the end of a game but we basketball players usually do it and out of habit we form two lines and start the greeting. Normally we do more of a shoulder bump though with ladies present we stick with the classic handshake. The girl in pink is one of the last people in the line and when she and my friend shake hands I don't hear they say anything in particular.

* * *

Tonight, as every Friday night, there are a few young (and not so young) ladies milling around the pub, well known faces and well known intentions.

-"_Novelty is not something we see often in Milton_", I say referring in general to the ladies present and to one absent in particular. John, who seldom pays them any attention, nods in agreement.

-"_It's not novelty the lure for me, though_", he replies, "_it's that lately... I don't know, Danny, women seem either too forthcoming or too afraid of me._" He shakes his head in tired exasperation, "_have they always been like that? It's quite the mood killer._"

Only alcohol can make my friend admit that he's aware that he intimidates people. It affects men and women alike and I've witnessed how his business works so smoothly partly because of people being unable to say him no. I've also seen how women just throw themselves at his feet and he needs no more than a blink to get the full service. This might sound like a great prospect for a kid but for men our age boredom is the only possible outcome.

This is, however, a problem I never encountered myself.

-"_Dunno wacha talkin'bout, mate_" my inebriated self is a little more honest than my normal self, "_as long as I can get it up and get it in ya won't hear me complainin'_"

He chuckles but continues. "_The girl at the volleyball game, I can say two things about her: she's neither afraid of me nor seeking me out,_" John lets out a sigh and raises his eyebrows. "_That's refreshing. And quite stimulating,_" he adds, "_to have a non relative woman who can look me in the eye and speak her mind. Whatever she has to say. The other one who does it is Louise, a friend of my mother's, but at age seventy-five some things are out of the question_".

The subject is broached and I learn that she's the daughter of John's teacher (being a school dropout is a chip in his shoulder if there ever was one), not as young as I thought, and indeed I remember her from the party. She was a gorgeous lady who looked like a queen; Fanny seemed quite jealous and a few blokes embarrassed themselves to catch her attention but she ignored them all. To this I thought she was haughty but now I give her might be naïve. John tells me that they are from Oxford and she has no idea of what life is like in a place like Milton (a trait she apparently shares with her parents), that she has strong opinions and doesn't care about annoying him, and it becomes evident that for those and/or other reasons John thinks very highly of her. Probably anyone who is gutsy will have my friend's respect: if it comes in a neat package with looks and brains (as he tells me it's the case), then he will be up for grabs sooner than later.

And I must say, though I wouldn't do it aloud, that I'm happy for him. He's been quite lonely and burned by the affair with Chloe and if this girl is the answer, then so be it.

-"_Are you going to ask her out?_" John would never share his wooing plans with me but I ask anyway.

He frowns and for the first time ever he seems dubious about his chances with a female of his interest.

-"_Thing is, I don't think she'd have me, Daniel._" His eyes go back to the game on the screen.

The notion is ridiculous and I laugh outright. Turning down John Thornton? Really? Who the hell she'd think she is?

* * *

_John Thornton_:

Waterfowl is something I find rather ugly yet the word my mind uses to describe Margaret Hale, my teacher's pretty daughter, is a swan. Her movements are fluid yet economical, her whole body involved in each motion: her neck, shoulders and arms, especially her hands and the whole posture of her torso and her long legs, they are a continuation of her facial expressions and her ideas. This is something completely unlike every one and all women I've ever met.

I am intrigued, I am fascinated by such combination of strong personality and beauty in motion. I definitely look forward to the rare chance to see her after the lesson even if she doesn't seem to like me much. And that sort of makes sense to me, because... what business could someone like me have with such a creature?

Daniel tells me about asking her on a date but I wouldn't do that. But I get to think that if Daniel and I hadn't been on the same team I would have let her win. Seeing her face after scoring a point was priceless and I wonder if she had spoken to me if her team had won.

* * *

A/N: I'm not sure a modern John Thornton would feel so inferior to Margaret as the original does but that's fan fiction's idea. His choice of the word "creature" was taken from the original, where he discusses Margaret with his mother. His actual description of her was inspired from Risto Pakarinen's (From the desk of Risto Pakarinen) "How I kneed her".


	13. Unemployment

January 16th

_Richard:_

Margaret's only friend in Milton, a nice lady named Bessy, is going through hard times. She lost her job as a messenger because she was absent one time too many, and it pains me that it's my favorite student the instrument of her tragedy.

Margaret told me Bessy is looking for another job and that she wants to help take care of the child. In Margaret's mind this boy is in greater risk of social marginalization because of the mother's unemployment, and she thinks it will be good for him to have someone reinforce the importance of the social institutions, this is, school. Margaret believes that everything must be done for this boy to succeed academically.

I'm not completely sure I agree with her but I don't want to antagonize her either, so everyday at 3.00 PM we have this very young boy come, shy and silent, to spend two hours in our dining room while my daughter makes sure he does his homework. She also feeds him hot cocoa and homemade cookies, and at 5.00 PM has him ready to leave. His mother or grandfather come in a red Vespa, punctual, and whisk him away. Poor little boy.


	14. An unfortunate incident

January 26th

_Margaret:_

I keep going to the volleyball game hoping that Mr. Thornton doesn't show up again and my wish is granted. I often see the blond man who was with him, although I don't say hello... we haven't been introduced and I have no idea if he knows who I am or cares enough to stop and chat. People here are way more straightforward in their ways and I don't want my intentions to be mistaken, so I stick to what I feel to be safer. Nothing personal.

Once or twice on my way from the locker room to the volley game I think I see Mr. Thornton playing basketball or football. I know he drives a silver grey BMW but the one in the parking lot might be someone else's.

Mr. Thornton... sometimes I wonder why he insists on arguing and discussing everything so thoroughly, if regardless of what I say he swats my opinions as if they were annoying flies. If he wants to drive the point of the strength of his convictions, well, thank you very much. Point taken.

Milton's January weather is bleak: cold, windy and rainy and this week has had plenty of all three. Today is Wednesday and people seek refuge from the streets, which are almost empty long before midnight. I'm heading for home and am ready to cross the street towards the bus stop, when I see Bessy's red moped but I don't recognize the driver.

Although my friend has been known to lend her vehicle to her father and sister, none of them seem to be the driver and I'm afraid it's been stolen. Not knowing exactly what to do I keep my eyes on it - not a difficult task because it's rolling to a stop on the curb only ten meters away. Two people get off it; they seem to be two young men with small backpacks. They're wearing full black clothes and instead of helmets, black hats and scarves covering most of their faces. It's winter, yet that particular detail is a very bad omen. They look around but I don't think they've noticed me, my spot darkened by a tree.

They advance stealthily to the parking lot and place themselves behind the bushes next to the BMW. After a moment of hesitation, right when I decide to cross the street I hear someone getting out the gym through the parking lot's door. It's Mr. Thornton. And he walks to his car.

Adrenaline rushes through my body and my senses are heightened. I've never experienced fear of this magnitude before: images flash through my mind, of Mr. Thornton lying on the black wet pavement in a pool of blood, his face disfigured, his limbs awkwardly positioned, my father losing his only friend in Milton. Fate has decided I will be the only person who could thwart this attack on an innocent unsuspecting person, and right now in my mind there are no options.

Taking advantage of the cover of darkness I approach them. Mr. Thornton is placing his bag in the trunk of his car. When he slams it close he finds himself flanked by two black silhouettes brandishing what looks like tools, maybe monkey wrenches. Seems that one is going to immobilize Mr. Thornton while the other attacks, but what do I know.

I run towards them yelling from the top of my lungs. What do I say, I have no idea. All three men turn to look at me, and I hurl myself at the one with the monkey wrench. He strikes back.

Shrieking bolts of pain shoot from my head straight to my toes. I fall to my knees, scrapping my hand with the back bumper or the gravel on the pavement, plunging into darkness and confusion.

I vaguely hear the light rushed footsteps of the attackers fleeing in different directions. I think Mr. Thornton is going to run after one of them but he helps me stand up instead. My head aches horribly and I think I'm bleeding. My limbs aren't in awkward angles, though. I think I laugh at that but Mr. Thornton looks horrified. Maybe he is afraid of blood or maybe he's angry at me. I'm sure he thinks he could have handled it on his own and I would probably agree. I feel really stupid. He opens the trunk of his car and hands me something clean and white, maybe a t-shirt, and I'm not sure what to do with it but I press it over the left side of my face, which is starting to feel wet, warm and sticky.

I'm dizzy again and he takes me up in his arms as if I weighed nothing and walks back to the gym. When I come round I'm laying on one of the sofas at the lounging area, a person in white coat is flashing a little light into my eyes and there's a soft murmur in the background. Not without some effort I sit and look around. The doctor asks some questions and I reply making sure I state that I want to go home.

The doctor tells me they're taking me to the hospital instead - but if everything is alright I'll be home tonight. Fortunately Mr. Thornton is not on sight and as I climb the ambulance I assume he's done and gone.

* * *

At the hospital they clean my wound, which is just a graze, and a traumatologist checks my bones and joints. Everything seems in order but she tells me I'm in shock and I'll be in pain later. Another doctor gives me a baseline test for concussions and believes I'm not in danger. They give me a painkiller and I sink into the drug's torpor.

There's a soft beeping sound in the background. The smell of hospital, that particular mixture of bleach, vinyl and central heating attacks my nostrils. My adrenaline rush is gone and worry over my parents overwhelms me. I need to go home.

Someone strokes my hair, very, very softly. A finger curls a lock around it and lets it slip quietly. I wait for a repeat but it doesn't come. I open my eyes and I see Mr. Thornton sitting on a plastic chair by my side, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on a point on the floor. He seems deep in thought or maybe tired or bored, or all three. A nurse approaches and he stands and leaves my side without looking back.

Not far from me there's another patient. It's an old, wizened lady breathing through an oxygen mask. When she notices I'm awake she waves friendly and I think she smiles. She folds her hands under her chin and blinks repeatedly, a dramatical gesture of rapture that reminds me of Betty Boop. "_You are one lucky girl__" _she says removing her mask for a moment and winking. I don't know what luck there is in being battered and concussed so I guess she might be delusional.

A while later he's still not back. Actually I'm not sure he was here at all or it was just a figment of my imagination, or maybe it was somebody else so when a doctor comes and discharges me I hop on a taxi and go home. When I arrive the kitchen's clock marks 2.31 AM: I shower quickly and go to bed but sleep eludes me. The elderly patient's words repeat with the insistence of a drum roll, and frankly, I feel ashamed like never before. I wish I won't have to look Mr. Thornton in the eye for days, weeks if that's possible, or not again in this lifetime if that isn't much to ask.

I also hope I don't look too awful. I don't want to worry my mother needlessly.

* * *

Note: The original scene is a lot more complex and I just took one little aspect for this version. This chapter was heavily edited on account of some reader's comment and I hope it's more believable now.


	15. Mistaken

January 27th

_Maria:_

My daily doses of a bitter rainbow of pills don't always help me sleep through the night. Last night I was awake when Margaret came home. It was very late and she hadn't mentioned anything but after so many years living without us I suppose she needs some independence.

I heard her taking a shower and later, tossing and turning in bed. She's being so selfless and stoic, as she's always been, but I realize she's carrying too much weight on her shoulders. How I wish she had someone to lean on.

This morning she was already up when I came down for breakfast and her face looked strange. She told us she had been mugged outside the gym and came home so late because she had decided to go to the emergency room, but fortunately it wasn't anything serious - just a bump and a sore shoulder. She didn't call us because there was nothing we could do but worry and, always the pragmatist, she didn't see any use for that.

It is a discovery both humbling and heart wrenching that we've become children to our daughter.

This afternoon we're going to our first meeting with a group of people who... well, Margaret insisted and we're yielding. I'm not sure I want to go see other people sick but when my daughter is set on something it's quite difficult to say no.

* * *

_Margaret_:

It's 2.30 PM and I feel miserable. The more I think about last night the worse I feel. I should have thought about my parents first, I should have stopped Mr. Thornton on his way to his car, I should have talked and not done what I did.

A pounding headache is stalking me but is kept at bay by the Vicodin. My left shoulder is badly bruised and I can barely move the arm, my hand is sore and scratched. I must have fell badly on my knees, because dragging myself up or down the stairs is challenging, even getting up from a seat. I school myself not to groan and I grind my teeth more than once. Oh God, let this day be over soon.

The dishes are done and my parents are gone to their first therapy group meeting. My mother left a cake baking in the oven and set the alarm to 3.00 PM. I make some tea and sit with my laptop to read mail from Edith, always so blissfully inconsequential. The doorbell rings and I pray, please don't let it be Mr. Thornton.

Apparently I've exhausted my luck avoiding Mr. Thornton at volleyball.

-"_Mr. Thornton, good afternoon_" I say not quite meeting his eyes. "_My father is not home, I'm afraid, and it may take long_".

-"_Ah_," he clears his throat and then I notice he has a bouquet of flowers in his hand. "_Good afternoon, Miss Hale, may I come in?_"

I would say no, you may not, but that would be unacceptably rude.

-"_Of course_". I step aside and he comes into the hall, large and looming and with a bouquet in his hand.

-"_These are for you_", he says extending them to me. "_How are you feeling?"_

I don't let myself admire these admittedly gorgeous flowers while I take them with my right hand and head for the kitchen, barely muttering a "_I'm fine, thanks_". He hangs his jacket in the hall's rack, as he always does, and follows me.

If there is one thing I know about Mr. Thornton is that he is not a smooth talker and right now, I'd rather he were mute or that he only spoke a foreign language I didn't understand. He watches me as I fill one vase with water and unwind the cellophane, and once more against my wishes he talks in perfectly understandable English. Will he never tire of contradicting me?

-"_I would like to thank you for what you did last night_", he starts.

-"_Oh no, please, don't thank me_", I interrupt and wave my hand. My left hand. I try not to wince. I think he notices.

-"_Why shouldn't I? It was very courageous of you, and if you hadn't intervened I might not have lived to tell it_."

Mr. Thornton's face has something different today. I think it's smugness. For the first time I notice that his eyes tilt up at the corners and sparkle. I think he's having a grand laugh at me and I get defensive.

-"_I simply did what I felt it was right_" I reply a little huffy.

-"_And I think that's one of the many things that make you such a beautiful person_" he says softly and smiling.

That leaves me speechless for a moment. It dawns on me that he thinks I... that I did it because I want to make myself noticed, that my actions have ulterior motives. I raise my face from the flowers and look at him straight in the eye, in disbelief. I blush violently, as I think I've never blushed before, from my ears to the bridge of my nose and chin and everything in between. I think even my eyelids go red. I wouldn't exaggerate if I said my face is in flames.

He evidently mistakes the heat on my face for avowal of reciprocity. He goes on. "_I would like to invite you to have dinner with me, to get to know you better and put our differences behind us once and for all_".

-"_No._" The monosyllable springs to my lips by its own will but I don't disagree. He looks surprised.

-"_Excuse me?_" his smile drops, his brows contract, an cloud of menace shadows the previous smugness.

-"_No, I don't want to have dinner with you, and see anything more of what I've already seen of you."_ My words come rushing. _"Why would I want to?_" I ball of anger rises from my chest, I know I'm losing my head but I don't stop to take a breath, "_I told you, I did what I felt was right. I would have done for anyone, even one of those men. It insults me that you take it otherwise._" I remember the strokes on my hair last night and the old lady's words, and my ears catch fire as well.

-"_It insults you, I see. Enough to flee the emergency room without waiting for me, right?_", he's getting angry too and I experience some relief. A cross Mr. Thornton is so much familiar than... this.

-"_I am free to come and go as I please. Who do you think you are?"_ I can't help the icicles of contempt hanging like knives from my words. The question is not about him coming with flowers, is about him contradicting me, squashing me like a bug at every possible chance, of being the one to fire my friend, of being the object of my father's adoration. Does he want me to join the chorus of people at his feet? No thank you.

Accepting this invitation is not about eating. It would be like a capitulation, and I don't want to surrender myself to this overbearing man.

-_"I don't think anything. I know who I am_" he spits back, "_and I know I am man enough to admit my feelings, and to acknowledge that my life has been saved by someone else's actions"._

Mr. Thornton is furious. And he's hurt. The word "feelings" disconcerts me.

-_"My presence is an affront to you, I know. You despise me and you feel it's a disgrace to have been invited by me, but I cannot change who I am. And I'm not sorry!__"_.

Mr. Thornton is hurt and I did it. It wasn't smugness on his face earlier, it was hope. This wasn't a condescending invitation but had been considered carefully. I just had no idea.

-_"Mr. Thornton, please._" I plead trying to change my tone,_ "Don't go in anger. Please think of my father, don't let this ruin his friendship with you"._

Mr. Thornton shoots me a murderous look._  
_

-"_Tell Mr. Hale I'll be absent for today's lesson but I'll phone him. Good afternoon_".

He shows himself out and slams the door on his way out.

My head is about to explode, my heart beats erratically and I am short of breath. All I want to do is to curl on my bed and hide under the covers for a week, but instead I take the cake out the oven and I run a cycle of laundry.

* * *

Note: Comparing a marriage proposal to a dinner invitation is quite unfair, but it's also true that marriage these days is completely another business. I hope you found the comparison acceptable.


	16. Weekend trip

January, 28th

_Bertha_:

I came this afternoon to visit Maria - the prospect of the loss of my friend worries me to sleeplessness... Not wanting to cross the line of what is appropriate I let the daughter and husband be with her, but I try to go as often as they let me.

The moment I arrived I learned that Margaret was mugged yesterday and she seemed truly distraught, so I told Maria that a weekend in London with her cousin and aunt would do our little girl good. Maria and Richard agreed so when she came up from folding laundry we suggested her going on a trip. I reassured I would take care of her assigned housework and after a phone conversation between my friend and her sister, Margaret agreed she would take Friday's evening train and her aunt's chauffeur would wait for her at the station.

Nobody wants Margaret to go outside alone after dark now, not even herself.

* * *

January, 29th

_Edith:_

This is the first time Maggie comes visit since I got married and she went back with her parents. I have so many things to show her, my new home so different to our modest and shabby student apartment! I gather heads with my mother and we decide on taking her clothes shopping and a beautifying session. Maggie's hair is heavy and benefits so much from a good cut! And maybe I can convince her for the first time to have her hair highlighted... I'm bursting with plans and enthusiasm over this weekend. And maybe I'll tell her my little secret, or maybe she notices my pregnancy glow without me having to tell her anything. Oh, we'll have so much fun!

* * *

January, 30th

I have to say, Maggie's visit hasn't been half fun of what I expected. Then again, I hear aunt Maria is not very well these days so I suppose she's worried. She didn't notice my tummy isn't flat anymore and that she wasn't the only to skip wine at dinner. She seems distracted, to be honest. So unlike her.

We went clothes shopping and she picked sensible shoes and clothes, which equals boring and ugly. Mother said they were tasteful and appropriate to her lifestyle, but I had my heart set on a pair of pink sequined killers and was a little disappointed. The haircut plan didn't go at all; she has an awful lump on her forehead and roundly refused anyone touching her head. She accepted a pedi and a mani and a foot massage, though. The most extravagant luxury my cousin seems to enjoy is a good foot massage.

She stays in my childhood room at mama's house in Harley Street, and this morning she went out early to meet some acquaintances but joins un for lunch. To be honest, I feel used and quite let down: she dismissed all my little plans to cheer her up and she is oblivious to my own happiness.

After we've eaten some delicious pasta in a wonderful new restaurant Ian discovered, I break the news and Margaret does that thing only she can do. She smiled and hugged me and said she was elated to be an aunt, but the thing when you hear Margaret telling you that she feels happy for you, is that she makes you feel that today the sun rose just for you. She makes you feel that special.

Mama says Margaret is unaware of her immense charisma. I don't know about that, but before she got on the train she apologized for having been so inattentive. That just about melted my heart.

* * *

_Sylvia_:

After Margaret left from her morning visit I went out to join Mel in the terrace. The visit was unusual; Margaret, normally cool and collected, was very upset and cried in my presence for the first time since we reunited. I felt touched by her inner turmoil and warmed by her affection and her trust.

Melanie raises her head from the potted bushes she is working on and smiles at me. I approach with a folding seat and sit by her side. I know I won't be breaching Margaret's confidence by talking to Mel about what I have just heard.

- "_How is Margaret?_", she asks me. "_I thought she had a bruise on her face, didn't she?_"

- "_Well_", I reply, "_the girl leads a busy life. Seems that she goes to the gym on the evenings, and on Wednesday night as she was leaving the premises, saw that in the parking lot a man was about to attack another one from behind. She said she knew the victim didn't have a chance to repel the attack, so she ran and hurled herself at the attacker_."

Mel raises one perfect eyebrow and wipes the sweat from her forehead.

- "_Does she see her action as courageous or stupid?_", she asks.

- "_As stupid, absolutely, but said she felt responsible for the victim's life if she simply stood and watched. She said the adrenaline rush took over her and all it left in its wake was embarrassment._"

I fan myself with a magazine, and continue my story. I'm yet to get to the most interesting part.

- "_She did thwart the attack but got a good beating herself. The would be victim took care of the situation and the attacker ran and disappeared, then the ambulance and police came and she went through all of that but didn't call home. The next day she told her parents she had been mugged and had been to the hospital and etcetera, but she didn't say exactly what happened_."

Mel stops working on her bush and she straightens to give all her attention to me.

- "_This man, the one that would have been attacked, went to her home the following day. It seems they knew each other because this man is a student of Richard's, Margaret's father, and Margaret says she always thought he didn't like her at all_", I continue.

- "_But she was wrong_", Mel guesses.

- "_It seems so. He showed up to thank her for interfering, and he then he invites her out on a romantic date_".

Mel is smiling and so am I. "_Wow_", she says.

- "_Yes, wow. Margaret thought he was doing it out of pity, but then it downed on her that he was genuinely interested_", I add.

- "_I wonder what's his name_", says Mel in low voice, almost to herself.

- "_I think she said Jonas or John Thornton_", I reply after a little effort remembering something Margaret mentioned only once and didn't want to repeat.

Mel's eyes widen. "_Double wow. What did she say?_"

- "_Margaret said their acquaintance had been quite rocky so far and that she got really angry at him, lost her head and told him a few very rude things. She sent him packing, no doubt about that,_" I pause a little to catch my breath. "_I don't know what things she said, but she cried when she got to this part._"

Margaret's tears were of shame and repentance, and she quite didn't realize it but of confusion too.

- "_Do you think she's in love with him?_" asks Melanie as if reading my thoughts.

- "_No, but she might, eventually_", I reply. "_So you know this John Thornton. Please tell me more about him,_" I request holding Mel's hand, now free of the gardening glove.

As a financial advisor and manager Mel knows a lot of people I have never met, so I'm not surprised she knows him. Besides she lived in Milton for a while so she could have met him or his family.

- "_He's the owner of Marlborough Mills Repair Shop and one of your largest tenants, Sylvie. He's about thirty-five but looks older, and is..._" Mel pauses and raises her eyebrows eloquently, "_quite the manly man. Do you remember little Sophie had a crush for years on that rugby team's captain? Well, it was him._" How could I forget Melanie's niece's tears of unrequited love? She had given up on him only after she had met her now husband. "_He's tall and has a massive_ frame," Mel's hands describe something enormous,_ "with deep voice and soulful grey eyes._" Mel smiles at what she says next, "_I meet with him for the lease renewal, and he might not have a college degree and can be quite the ogre if he wants to, but he's a really good person. Intelligent, fair and devoid of vanity. A rare blend if you ask me. I'm surprised Margaret thought he disliked her_," she frowns and purses her lips thoughtfully, "_maybe she didn't see through the brashness, our St. Anne's girl._"

Melanie lets out a throaty laughter and I join her, because we sometimes can't believe how Margaret emerged from the epicentrum of all things snobby and frivolous as such a lovely and sensible girl. Then again Margaret is made of good wood and it seems that nothing could corrupt her.

-"_Maybe it's that she's really young and confused_", I try to defend her. "_You say this Thornton is a good man but looks like an ogre_".

Mel nods, deep in thought. "_Not meaning that he's ugly, only that you need balls of steel to go against him. In that,_" she adds with a smile "_they are a perfect match in character, don't you think_?"

-"_Maybe too perfect,_" I say and smile but soon it's replaced by tears. Mel squeezes back my hand and kisses my forehead.

-"_I miss her so much, Mel. I'm happy with what she gives me, but..._" I trail. I cannot put my wishes and regrets in words and it's not truly necessary.

-"_It's alright, honey._" Melanie knows me and gives me the comfort my heart needs._ "It's alright."_

* * *

_Margaret:_

John Thornton is on my mind, constantly. I don't seem able to think about anything or anyone else. I'm on the train back home and I replay the words we exchanged, but my memory plays games and I don't remember anymore what was said or thought afterwards. What did really happen that day? He mentioned feelings, what feelings does he have, or used to have for me? For how long? Whenever he had been countering my arguments, what was going on with him? I never thought he took me seriously, how could I be so wrong?

I look at my reflection on the window and I try to see my face the way he sees me. I am filled with regret for my hard words but I don't regret turning him down. That invitation was not for food, not just at least, and it had been heartfelt. Otherwise, why would he react like he did? That slam on our door almost broke its windowpanes.

My mind goes on its own to my cousin's wedding, when I turned Henry down. Henry is used to hide his feelings and he's the master of slick... did I hurt him this badly too? If I did, I am so sorry.

I try to think about my mother, about the two babies that will come to our family soon, but John Thornton's face and the echo of his voice interrupt. "_Alright_", I think, "_I hadn't realized your eyes were green. I thought they were gray. And thank you for coming this Saturday for your lesson, my father needs them more than you can suspect. Or you do. Well, thank you anyway_".

I enjoy being on my own on this train scattered with empty seats, and I ready myself for being back. My father is waking up from his sleep, and it's good but it's also tough because he's aged about twenty years in the past five days. I put on my headphones and practice relax breathing the rest of the trip. Sometime I fall asleep and I wake up in Milton. I open my eyes and see Dixie's stout form huddled against the night mist on the platform, waiting for me.

I'm glad to be home.


	17. Hard choices

February, 5th_  
_

_Daniel_:

I haven't heard from John since the day after that ugly scene at the gym's parking lot, about ten days ago. He told me he had paid her a visit the following afternoon to see how she was doing and to thank her, but things didn't go very well. She took his presence pretty much as an insult and he realized that her disgust was deeply rooted, and this was the straw that broke the camel's back. He tried to laugh when he add that he hadn't noticed that he was such a disgusting brute, and then he shrugged the whole thing off.

I know my friend had admired her for some time and he obviously thought that her actions meant that it was a good time to make a move but apparently that was a wrong assumption. I don't blame him for that - I would have thought the same myself. He's always busy but I guess he's pretty much laying low these days so I call him for some beers tonight to coax him out of his lair.

John is not just laying low; he is simply devastated. Even when things with Chloe soured, even when his father died and everything in his life turned upside down, he always seemed to have reserves of energy and focus; but not now. I had never seen him in such state of brokenness. This woman took my friend's heart and stomped on it while she laughed. I cannot believe so much cruelty directed at someone so deeply and inherently good as John Thornton, who, in turn, won't have a bad word spoken about her. Life is so unfair.

So I do what mates do. We get drunk and we discuss every possible subject but the real problems we have. I try to make him laugh with things from my job at the Metropolitan Police: the hot new intern, watercooler gossip and the stupidity of the new generation of villains (you'd never believe how many cases are solved these days because of idiots checking Facebook in the homes they break and enter), of sports, politics and the chemistry of beer, all of this while we shovel deep fried food into our mouths. Judging by the amount of alcohol we're taking it'll probably come out the same way before night's over.

The third and fourth beers go by and he doesn't say a word about the girl and that's fine with me. A bald man in his fifties on his way out nods our way. John nods back.

- "_That man, Robert Watson, he's dating my sister,_" he says.

-"_Really?_", I say. My tongue gets a little loose with liquor but John rarely minds.

-"_Yep. They're getting quite serious, I hear_," he adds

-"_Your sister likes'em ripe. Fanny a merry widow wannabe?" _There you go. Ethyl fueled sincerity.

-"_Yo, Dan. It's my sister we're talking about here,_" he calls me to order. "_You don't need a shrink to know why Fanny always dates older men_", he says and lets out a breath while shaking his head. I'm clueless and it shows in my face, or it doesn't, but he goes on. "_She never got over our father's death, Daniel. People say I took the worst of it when he died, but at least I made choices. Hard choices, but they were mine. Fanny didn't... she lost it all in the blink of an eye._"

John has discussed his father's death with me only once before, more than fifteen years ago, and his words are still clear in my memory. He knew his father suffered from depression and he didn't blame him for ending his own life. That his father's soul-eating disease (in his own words) had caused his demise and that he had learned to love and appreciate life more because of it.

-"_I am more like our mother, more focused and quite boring apparently, but Fanny and our father were like two leaves of the same tree. Fun loving, always laughing and joking with each other. My father was my sister's hero, and she was the light of his eyes. They had a special bond... well, a little like my mother and I have_" Mrs. Thornton is a force to be reckoned, and she and John don't have a regular mother and son relationship. It's more... it's halfway siblings and business partners and man are they tough with each other.

"_Sometimes I wonder what would have become of me if she had been the one who died_", he muses aloud. _"But thing is, one Thursday morning our father wrote a suicide note, left it in the car and jumped off a building's roof. Fanny was only five years old and all at once she lost a parent, her best buddy, her home, her school friends and everything else that was her world. We had to move to a cheap and awful place, and mother and I were working all the time so she spent most of the day with strangers. When we were home we were exhausted and could never paid her the attention she deserved. The attention she needed,_" his voice breaks and he pauses to swallow, "_I can only imagine how lonely and miserable she must have felt. I tried to fill my father's shoes but I failed horribly._"

He takes his empty glass in his hands and rolls it against the table edge, fixing his eyes in the froth marks moving right and left. "_When I started making serious money my mother and I tried to make it up to her. We've given her everything we could, we've tried so hard to make her happy... but I don't think we've done a good job of it. You know, Daniel? I really hope this Watson guy loves her and makes her happy. I don't mind he's old enough to be her father, I only hope she's happy._"

I stay silent, aware that I'm too drunk to say anything really helpful or coherent. It hovers over my head the thought that my friend barely tolerates his sister, which I keep to myself because it's only another source of guilt. But letting him taking things off his chest seems good enough for now; and it's mostly all I can do.

-"_I used to think that ultimately Chloe had been right, you know? She wanted babies and I didn't, that's what that big fight was about, that's why she left me. Not that I refused to be a father forever, I only wanted to wait a few years. But a while ago I started to think that it must be nice to have a kid... even if we had divorced I could be somebody's father. The outcome has to be positive, and there's nothing I'd like more than receiving presents on Father's day. Now, seeing how tough things have been with Fanny, it's good I didn't subject anybody else to my lack of parental abilities, don't you think?_"

He laughs and it's all so sad that I order a new round of drinks. We drink until shit faced and in our way home, we predictably barf it out on the curbside. Him under a flowery bush, me in the green trash can of recyclables, and I'd rather hammer myself in the balls than letting him go to his home alone. He's crashed at my place before so I give him the intelligence code and he accepts.

He sleeps on my couch and the next day get up hungover, have a coffee and go on our lives. We'll never mention this conversation again.

* * *

Note: One of my favorite parts of the original is Mr. Thornton's reaction to Margaret's rejection, and I urge you to read it if you haven't. Ch. 26 "Mother and son".

"Soul-eating disease" are words by Heather Armstrong (dooce): "Drama".

* * *

February, 9th

_Bessy:_

Pete, Mary's boyfriend, got me a job as a janitor in the cinema he works at. It's only a few times a week and the pay is modest, but it's something.

The good thing about this job is that I get free tickets to see any movie they play. The bad things is that I seldom like to see the movies they play. Blockbusters, romance, car chases or aliens seem like the original sin, and instead they insist on very strange Danish stuff. Only intellectuals come.

This strange stuff, however, sometimes is funny. A few days ago they had this one about a reformed neo nazi man who has to bake an apple pie, and Mary and I almost peed on our seats once we got the hang of the humor. There have been a couple of good ones for kids and Phil liked them so I think I could invite Margaret.

I phone her and after a few false starts we set on one from Canada, in French unfortunately, but I don't mind reading captions. This one even won an Oscar so I guess I'll like it too.

Thirty minutes into the thing I regret bringing my friend, and by the time it's over Margaret is sobbing incontrolably over my shoulder. I didn't know it was about a man dying of cancer, my God, it was hard even for me, ten years later.

I take Margaret to a late night cafeteria for pankaces a hot cocoa (I've noticed she doesn't drink alcohol), and try to comfort her. She said the similes between the story and her home were unnerving... her mother's painkillers are less effective every day, and doctors don't seem to take her mother's pleas seriously.

For the first time ever someone wants to hear about the most horrible days of my life, the last days of my mother. She asks me about medicine and I see an idea taking shape in her mind.

-"_It's a bad idea_", I tell her. "_Don't get yourself into that, you'll be dealing with dangerous people and your mother's pain is not your fault_".

-"_I know it's risky... but she's suffering so much. Do you...?_"

Her eyes finish her question. And my answer is yes, I know how to get that. Dingers. Weed. Snow. Junk. Things to blow your mind, ease your pain and free you from the problems of your life for a little while. I've never been into them, probably one of the best thing about having Phil in my life, but I know how and where to get them.

But the thing with drugs is that once they found you they'll follow you everywhere. They'll squat your thoughts, your time and your purse, and then your body and your whole life. You'll work for them, you'll live for them, even if you never touch them. I don't want that for Margaret.

* * *

February, 10th

Margaret calls me at 11 AM, her mind made up. She knows the risks but after hearing her mother crying in pain and desolation she says it's the best course of action. She argues that if her mother gets hooked it won't be a problem, either; the disease is too extended and she doesn't have much to live.

I hate doing this. I really don't want to. I'm heading for work and then I'll go see this man, nicknamed "Mickey Mouse" because of his squealing voice after I'm out, at 5 o'clock. But Margaret doesn't want me to be involved and asks me if there is any way she can do it herself.

A mule is easier to handle. I simply cannot change her mind, so I give her a phone number and I hope for the best.

The best does not happen.

* * *

Notes: the films referenced by Bessy are "Adam's apples" and "The barbarian invasions". The drugs she mentions are: dingers = ecstasy, weed = marijuana, snow = cocaine and junk = heroin. I found the terms in the Urban Dictionary, I don't know if they're all in use or if some are old.

Getting Frederick involved in a mutiny, hiding from the law in Spain and coming back under a disguise is pretty hard these days, with Interpol and all the human tracking that goes on with (and without) our express consent. Besides, it would imply that Frederick is indeed guilty and mostly the original bases itself on the premises that his involvement in the mutiny wasn't his fault, so this is the best thing I could come up with. A reader pointed out that the National Health System covers terminal patients in home care and this situation is not realistic. I am sorry.

I took this idea right from the film "The barbarian invasions", in which a man with terminal cancer gathers his friends (all seen before in the older film "Le declin de l'empire americain") and their children for a goodbye. The man's son gets him cocaine to alleviate his pain. I must say that I've never seen doctors being indifferent to terminal patients' pain, and just like Bessy does, I think this is a monumentally bad idea.


	18. In good company

February, 10th

_Margaret:_

I called Bessy's man and, for lack of a better expression, set an appointment for this early afternoon near a park. In spite of my logical wariness everything went smoothly and just as depicted on TV (when the script sets everything to go right, that is). I sat on the blue bench on the left of the swingers, a moment later someone appeared and pushed something in my pocket. I handed back a wad of bills and this person vanished. The whole thing took perhaps 90 seconds since I arrived to the moment I left.

While I walk back I realize I am sweating and the fabric of my shirt chafes the skin of my underarms. I feel like I've just dodged the meanest bullet of my life. As I turn the nearest corner I meet Phil, who has just got off the bus from school, and notice Mr. Thornton's car parked by our door. I haven't seen Mr. Thornton since... since that afternoon and I don't relish the prospect of a new meeting.

Phil sits at the dining room table scattering his notebooks and pencils and gets down to work. I would love to have a shower but it will have to wait. My father's study door is shut; my mother and Dixie are in a knitting frenzy of baby patterns and fluff yarn in the living room, the soft clicking of their needles the only conversation they have. The kitchen clock ticks. Phil's blue crayon scraps the map where he colors the Pacific Ocean. Everything is calm.

After an hour or so my father's face appears on his doorway and right behind him comes Mr. Thornton. They join the ladies in the den and my mother asks me to make tea, which I set out to do at once and have everything ready a few minutes later.

I then carry the large tray balancing a full pot of freshly brewed tea, chocolate cake, sugar, cups, saucers and spoons. Dixie helps me lay it on the coffee table and sets out to pour tea and slice the cake. I go back to the dining room, where Phil has finished his homework and is drawing his customary purple dinosaurs while silently longing for cake and warm milk. From my vantage point I can see Mr. Thornton's profile: his dark thick hair is neatly cut and leaves the forehead clean, his eyebrow bone is prominent and harmonious with his bump nose, generous lips and rounded chin. My gaze lingers a minute too long on his features but he doesn't acknowledge my examination.

A while later Phil is gone and my mother smiles up at me, hoping for me to join them. I comply although I have to force myself to raise my eyes from my hands, my mother's knitting needles, the rim of the tray or my cup. The seniors are enjoying this tea. My mother is in high spirits and my father chatters animatedly. Dixie fires her opinions, as she always does, and refills cups. Mr. Thornton quips and smiles, making my father merry and my mother pleased. Everyone is having a good time.

Everyone but me.

Mr. Thornton looks as he always looks and sounds as he always sounds, but when I dare to look up at him I feel like I'm seeing him for the first time. Not as an overbearing man with an unquenchable thirst of power over everything and everyone, but as a caring individual aware of his dues. The night of his party springs to my mind, and I realize that back then I didn't catch an extraordinary glimpse but his usual self. This is how most people see John Thornton everyday: a remarkable yet pleasing man.

"_I don't want to see any more than I have already seen of you_", I said in this very room only fourteen days ago. "_Why would I want to?"_ I went on, and then there was the cherry on top, "_Who do you think you are?_" Mr. Thornton's grey eyes don't flicker as my own wandering eyes follow the current conversation.

Two weeks ago I knew Mr. Thornton wasn't a smooth talker. Now I also know he isn't slick or given to feign nonchalance. It would seem that he ignores me, but what he actually does is to avoid me with the dedication and energy a marathoner focuses on the final line.

As I shut the door after him I let my gaze rest on his broad shoulders for a moment, and I make myself accept two certainties: that I truly offended him and that he didn't deserve it.


	19. Open hearts

February, 11th

_Maria:_

Margaret gave me some of the pills she was given at the hospital but didn't need and they've worked wonders. I've been able to rest better, fortunately, and I feel our Lord is helping me prepare for the mystical step from life to death. I am ready to go in peace.

It's early in the evening and I'm lounging on the living room sofa, my daughter lit a fire and I'm enjoying the sizzling and crackling sounds and the smell of wood fire. Although this home is cozy, nothing compares to huddling under a blanket before an open hearth on a winter night. Margaret sits on one of the club chairs and lazily pages through a news bulletin from Richard's old college. My husband is away on a rare outing.

I observe my daughter's face, bathed by the side table's amber light: flawless complexion, almond shaped eyes fixed on some note of interest, plump lips pursed in concentration, hers is a face that went from round and chubby to heart shaped. She never truly liked her looks and took some time to grow into her rather strong features, but she has become stunning and beautiful in her own style. It's a pity that she seems unaware of it, but that's also part of her undeniable charm.

If there is something I regret of having her grow up with Edith, it would be that she tends to sell herself short. Albeit, on second thought, it's more the feeling I missed out some of her personal milestones. That it was the school nurse who provided her with pads when she had her first menstruation and not me. That it was my sister who took her to buy her first bra. That I don't know if she ever was infatuated with a celebrity or fictional character, or when she started seeing Henry, or why they broke up. Not even if she ever went out with other men, although I'd find that hard to believe.

I hope she doesn't feel I've been indifferent instead of respectful, I hope she does know how much I've cared and still do. I hope she doesn't think I'm hurt or jealous because she reached out to Mrs. Bell, because I was only surprised but never felt dismissed.

Oblivious to my mental ramblings Margaret points out something from the bulletin. "_I didn't know the library's main reading room is named after Mr. West's wife_", she says. "_That's a very nice detail_".

Mr. Adam West used to be the Dean at Richard's college, and while he was more successful than my husband in terms of scholarly achievement he was also a good friend. Along with Alice, his wife, we used to attend concerts or exhibits and were quite close. She passed away some five years ago; Adam retired immediately and moved to Majorca. Their oldest daughter Fiona kept the family home, and Adam stays there when he goes to Oxford, which as far as I know, happens often.

-"_I think so. Do you think Richard should go see Adam?_" I wonder aloud omitting the end of the sentence, that is, "_after I died_".

-"_I don't know. I haven't seen Mr. West in about ten years_", she replies distractedly. Oh, I hadn't noticed we never met with the Wests when she was home.

-"_I wish he was home with me instead of out with Mr. Thornton_", I say suddenly allowing myself to voice the persistent feeling I've had for many years, of feeling neglected by my husband. I know I sound querulous, but well, I feel querulous.

-"_Oh, don't say that mama_", says Margaret putting down the paper and frowning in concern, "_you know how papa is... He has a hard time taking some things. If he weren't out with Mr. Thornton he'd be arranging his stamp collection or sorting socks by length or thickness. It doesn't mean he doesn't care about you._"

Margaret knows but doesn't judge. How wonderful is that?

-"_Margaret"_, I need to voice things that I've avoided for too long, "_I wish you weren't alone, my dear... it is so nice to find someone special_".

Margaret blushes for a moment but then regroups and laughs amiably.

-"_Mother, I am twenty-two years old. I am hardly a spinster, am I?_" she says, her dark eyes twinkling.

-"_No, you are not_", I agree. "_I hope you don't mind me asking, but why did you part ways with Henry? You seemed to get along so well_".

My daughter seems pensive for a long moment.

-"_We were good friends, that's right. But..._" she lets out a sigh. My daughter never lets out a word she hasn't considered thoroughly. "_It didn't work, we weren't happy together. There was something missing... I don't know, something like passion_", she finishes.

-"_What do you think of Mr. Thornton?_" My question surprises me because I really don't care about that man; it's just that we saw him yesterday and he was pleasing company. For a moment Margaret seems caught red handed but again takes her time to think her reply.

-"_I don't_ _know_", she shakes her head._ "I really don't know. Don't you think he is a little... old for me?_".

Now it's my turn to laugh, which comes out cackling.

-"_Old?_", I repeat amused and incredulous, "_Maggie, it is perfectly alright not to like Mr. Thornton, for any reasons you may have and even more"_, but that's not the point of her reservations and it didn't escape me._ "He's only thirty-four, I was older when I got pregnant with Frederick! You and I have a forty-five year gap! Why would you mind that?" _

Margaret seems sad and I suspect she thinks she might widow young if she marries an older man.

-"_Sweetheart, we don't know the Lord's plans for each one of us. Bertha married a young man and was a widow before she turned twenty-four. Keep with facts, not assumptions, will you?_"

Margaret's smile is lovely and forlorn.

-"_Of course, mama", _she says.

* * *

A/N: I have no idea how the Vicodin drug may work wonders with someone undergoing pain therapy, but I beg you take it as a license, just as Mr. Hale being able to prepare students for their examinations.


	20. Goodbye

February, 14th

_Margaret:_

The positive impact of the pills on my mother's mood are worth all the trouble. I try not to dwell on my bad conscience but there's a bitter taste in my mouth. What I did was against the law and I may put Bessy, or myself, or God forbid, my father or brother, in trouble.

I wish there had been other options available, but then again, I did what I felt was the right thing to do.

I wonder if_ the right thing to do_ will ever feel like a pleasant thing.

* * *

_Frederick:_

I am spending the next six days in Milton. After discussing strategy with Dolores and my in laws, and talking to my boss, I managed to clear some days form meetings and site visits. My laptop is with me so I'll be able to log some work when things are quiet.

* * *

_Richard:_

Maria is doing well. She's is good mood and has slept better the past days. It's a miracle. She has a removable cast on her right foot and barely gets up from the bed or the sofa, but other than that she's fine.

In spite of my outward appearance of calmness I am terrified by the hereafter with my wife gone. This is why I dismissed most of my students, because I cannot imagine myself going on with the same life without her.

Fortunately John said he didn't mind missing some lessons, so we'll pick up where we left off... whenever that happens.

* * *

_Maria:_

I am fainting. I can barely breathe, barely swallow, barely speak, barely live anymore. My heart stops and I jump in joy for being finally released from so much suffering into the arms of my Creator.

I am free.

Free at last.

* * *

February, 15th

_Bertha_:

My good friend Maria, whom I've known for more than six decades, is dead. My life will be lonelier and sadder, but now it's not the time to think about myself.

By her request there will be no funeral or visitation; her body will be cremated and the ashes will be buried later in the family grave in Oxford. She asked for a memorial service to be held a month later, probably in Milton or London. They called me when they realized she was dead to say my last goodbyes, and Margaret insisted they left me alone with her for a few minutes. I just stroked her hair, kissed her forehead and felt happy she's not in pain anymore.

Later a doctor came in to sign the death certificate and check there was no evidence of foul play. And when he left two men took my friend's physical remains, stuffed it into a plastic bag and tossed it in the back of a van. Margaret knew beforehand or understood quickly and took her menfolk to other room to save them from the macabre spectacle, and after mutely asking me for my consent left me to supervise they didn't take anything else.

I stayed with them until dinner, and joined forces with Margaret to feed the men scrambled eggs and fruit. Frederick shut himself in his mother's room and cried so loud and with so much desperation that Margaret offered him a tranquilizer, which fortunately he accepted. Richard also sobbed on Margaret's shoulder, all the while she maintained her composure.

Today I meet them at their home. We came in a car of Mr. Thornton's company but I thought (and Margaret agreed) that it was disrespectful of him not to drive it himself.

It's 4.00 PM and we're leaving Milton's cemetery cremation room. Only a handful of people came to pay their respects: it's Tuesday and it's cold and rainy. Maria's sister and niece, some old friends from Oxford, some of the private students of Richard and this friend of Margaret, Elizabeth.

I don't know if Margaret, Richard and Frederick have seen the people who came but I'd say no. They all stayed outside and I made them leave before the family started to come out the room. Mr. Thornton asked how they were, and I said the truth: that Frederick and Richard were devastated but Margaret bore it up better than likely. He said he might pay a visit on Thursday and left. Anna and Edith were the first to leave, and a minute later Margaret came out with a weakened Richard, his arm over her shoulders. Frederick stepped out right behind them.

* * *

Notes: I am particularly unspecific regarding Mrs. Hale's disease because I truly don't want to make this story sadder than it already is. I hope you don't find my vagueness disrespectful of your own experiences.


	21. After the funeral

February, 16th

_Bessy:_

I am out of work again. I'm not exactly surprised, they told me it would be just a month and there was no more to it.

Not having to go to work allowed me to attend Margaret's mother's funeral yesterday, where I saw Mr. Thornton... I thought about asking him for a job again, but a burial is not a place or time to do it. What I did do was to tell him I would like to speak to him but I'm not sure he heard me.

I'm torn regarding Margaret. There is something she should know but I don't want to worry her right now, when her mum has just died. Two rich people overdosed last week and the Police is on the track of this side of Milton's drug dealers, "Mickey Mouse" among them, as well as the people who buys from them. I just hope they leave her alone.

And I might be selfish but I am worried for myself too. It was me who gave her the number, and I don't want to get myself in trouble. I'm just terrified they might take Phil away from me.

* * *

February, 17th

_Frederick:_

It's 4.00 PM and I've already packed all my things. Tomorrow morning I'm flying back to Cádiz and my pregnant wife. I can't wait to be with her again and bury my face in her curly hair, feeling her taut and round body against mine. Her company is the promise of leaving behind all the sadness of this place and I'm more sorry for my father and sister than for myself.

I go down to the living room, where they are in silence. He is sitting, eyes fixed on the fire, she's standing near the window with a jewelry box in her hand, looking for a medal of the Virgin Mary for my child to be given at birth. I haven't lived with them for many years but they haven't changed all that much.

My father has kept lean and usually stands upright, physically looking much as I do though I'm taller by a few inches. He still dresses like a professor: pleated flannel trousers, tweed jacket (though he never abided to the elbow patch rule), V-neck sweater over rigurous white cotton shirt and tie, and leather tied shoes. He's always preferred brown to grey or blue, or maybe that was my mother's taste.

My sister still prefers skirts and dresses over trousers, and now is wearing a grey and pink cable knit dress that looks like a large sweater but isn't baggy or shapeless. Margaret would never look slovenly. The dress covers her knees, where it meets thick grey tights that go all the way down to ballerina clad feet. Her hair is longer than I remembered it and I think she has lost some weight, unsurprisingly I guess.

I complete the tableau in a more informal attire; dark denim, wool red windbreaker and loafers.

This morning my father informed that one of his students (Mr. John Thornton, whom I'd met briefly on a previous visit), would come this afternoon. He arrives after I came from upstairs and I open the door for him. After accepting his condolences I lead him to the room where my father sits.

He comes up straight to him and takes and wrungs my father's hands without uttering a word, for a minute or two, during which time my father's face acknowledges the sincerity of the sentiment. Then he turns to my sister (I know they don't get along very well) and offers his condolences. She accepts them with a nod of the head and returns her attention to her box, although I see her wiping a tear with a handkerchief and facing away from us and to the wall.

My father and his guest sit, and Margaret and I go to the kitchen to prepare tea. We return with the tray and join them. John, as my father calls him, asks me about my job as urban planner and my wife, and is generally polite. His comments and opinions seem to please and comfort my father, and when he's ready to leave my father begs him to stay a little longer.

The bell rings again and Margaret goes this time. A man comes in, she takes him to our father's study and closes the door. They spend about fifteen minutes there. Then he leaves and Margaret returns to the meeting as pale, bleary eyed and subdued as she had left.

* * *

_Margaret:_

Mr. Thornton is having tea with us and since I don't partake in the conversation I answer when the door bell rings. An unknown man in dark blue wool jacket stands there.

_-"Margaret Hale? Detective Simon MacGregor from the Metropolitan Police's Organized Crime Unit. May I have a word with you?_"

My heart just sinks to my feet and I struggle to keep my cool, which now is more like ice.

-_"Of course. Come in, please."_ I lead him to the study while my mind buzzes. I don't want to give Bessy in or admit any wrong doing. I decide I will pretend it never happened and I will make him regret the impertinence of interrupting a mourning family.

The interview is excruciating. I don't think I moved a facial muscle, foreign to this man's problem. Apparently some people of influence died as a consequence of drug consumption and now the Police is investigating. Of course, when it's regular or poor people the ones who die it doesn't matter.

The man who sold me the pills has been captured and he named his clients, me among them. He didn't have my name but he described me, and apparently someone I don't know thinks they saw me that day at the park but weren't too sure.

What I did, I did it for my mother. She's dead now. The dealer is in jail. The remaining pills were promptly flushed down the toilet. I know that lying to a police officer is an offense, but there isn't much I could help here anyway. This MacGregor man gives me a card "_in case I remember something_" and tells me he might visit again.

After closing the door after him I rejoin the men near the fire, but facing Mr. Thornton the bitter taste in my mouth is so overwhelming that I'm positively sick. I am sure Mr. Thornton didn't get his business running by lying to police officers, by mingling with traders of death, by dismissing people's true value. He's too proud, too straight and too clear minded to fall in the dirt like I did.

He said I was a beautiful person but he was wrong. The walls of this house have heard enough form my lips to prove exactly the contrary.

* * *

Note: The original visit is told from Mr. Thornton's point of view, and I find this scene poignant without being melodramatic. Ch. 34 "False and True".


	22. Course of action

February, 17th

_John:_

I pause a moment before igniting my car, a moment I need to untangle my thoughts and call myself to order.

First things first, Margaret didn't look like she was bearing it up better than likely. She looked positively miserable. She was collected, that's true, for her father's sake I suppose; and the selflessness of this act crushes every weak attempt of mine to belittle her, to make myself believe that I am better off without her.

All I wanted was to engulf her in my arms and kiss the top of her head, and let her cry and sob and moan, or let her ball her hands in fists and punch - I myself could take the hits- and curse and yell. Anything to shake that stillness, that overwhelming sadness that clouded her eyes and dulled her liveliness.

Then I would have told her that it takes time but eventually it does get better. I know that. That faith, family, love and work help, and that this loss and pain will always be with her but one day the good memories will prevail over the dark ones. But of course, I didn't do anything of it. I just uttered the formulaic expression of condolence I heard like a broken record when my father died, and made her cry when she didn't want to. What an awful reward.

I spoke to Mr. Hale, in whom I've always seen the man my own father wanted to be. Stable, in a happy and long marriage, working in an intellectual profession of his choice. I confess sometimes I look into my teacher's face for traces of his daughter's, but haven't been too lucky so far. The brother's face is easier to recognize, maybe she looks like the mother when she was younger and healthy? Who knows, and this is a useless ramble.

The thing with Margaret Hale, the one that doesn't let me go, the one I can hardly put into words and would never be able to voice, is not so much that she's so beautiful and young and extraordinary in so many aspects, all of which she is, but it's mostly about me, John Thornton.

I used to describe myself as guarded. I used to believe that my mind ruled my heart. That's how I explained to myself my overcoming the death of my father and failure of my marriage, but I was mistaken. My heart was just dormant and Margaret Hale stirred it in a way I wouldn't have thought it was possible; everything I've experienced before seems like a passing fancy in comparison. Margaret woke me to life, and it was when she was hurt and bleeding (for saving me, no less!) that the fog before my eyes lifted.

I hadn't wanted to dwell on it, giving it a shape, a name or a purpose, but when I was confronted with the possibility of a world without her (not just living in another place or married to another person), but simply gone, it was unbearable. The true nature of my unacknowledged feelings became clear with a strength that amazed and terrified me at the same time.

I've lived through hard times and I've done things I didn't think myself capable of, but now I don't know how to deal with myself. I am at the same time exhilarated and dejected, hopeless and full of life, and that's because she said no. It is sad and embarrassing to live the clichés, but now I feel I lived thirty-four years to understand what unrequited love and heartbreak means. No one could explain it to you, not even the crappiest song, but rest assured - they're very real.

And then, there's the other thing. Detective MacGregor, who's friends with Daniel, came in one of the Metropolitan Police's unmarked cars (I have repaired those and could point one in a full parking lot or fast highway). I know MacGregor has worked in the Domestic Violence Unit for years, and I'm aghast by the insolence of interrupting a mourning family. My goodness, the woman was diagnosed with cancer and had the death certificate signed by a doctor!

I ponder it while I drive back to my office, where as soon as I shut my door behind me I call Daniel. I will not tolerate anyone bothering Margaret, no matter whatever it may take.

* * *

_Daniel:_

It's well past five and I'm finishing an emergency call from the upper offices - someone's printer is jamming more than a Bob Marley record, when my fly vibrates. I put my phone in my front pocket when I know I may get one of Lulu's calls, and it sorts of put me in good mood. It's not Lulu, though.

-"_Donaldson speaking_", I say keeping a minimum of decorum for forms' sake.

-"_Danny, it's John_", my friend's voice is all business. "_Suppose you could tell me why detective MacGregor visited the Hales today_".

-"_Uh, what?_" this is the first time John asks me for insider information.

-"_Look, my teacher's wife was buried two days ago. They're mourning and there's this Domestic Violence detective coming in. Can't you show a little respect?"_, John is angry. He hates to be kept in the dark more than anyone I know, and I owe him enough to at least listen to his query.

-_"Let me see what I can find. Call you back."_ I end this conversation and quickly plot how to find out without raising suspicions. I summarily gather enough information for a full report and meet my friend for dinner.

My friend is surprised MacGregor was transferred to Drugs. And then he's surprised by the rest.

Me, I might be only repairing printers and setting email accounts, but I've spent enough time in the Force to learn not to trust a pretty face and a nice pair legs. No matter how nice the legs, and those are plenty.


	23. Left behind

February, 19th

_Richard:_

My son left yesterday morning and then I attempted to make myself useful. I went to the kitchen to make a sandwich but opening the fridge reduced me to tears. There were the little jars of chocolate pudding, Maria's favorite dessert, half eaten and oblivious of her passing. I somehow expected they'd be gone along with her but no, there they sat stolidly on the egg compartment. They even had the impertinence of being within their shelf life as if she were returning at lunch to finish them.

Margaret came and made some tea, all the while listening to my old man's rambles on pudding jars and shelf life. She let me sit by the fire and brought my sandwich but I felt I'd choke on it.

In the evening I felt thirsty and wanted to drink some lemonade. I opened the fridge with the same caution one would apply in walking through a mined field but the pudding jars were gone. And that broke me again.

The silence in this house is oppresive. I've always enjoyed silence but not of this kind. This is absence of Maria's sounds, her noisy asthmatic breathing, the click of her knitting needles or the turning of pages of her book, her tinkering and muttering while preparing dinner (she would speak to herself aloud when she thought no one was listening), her praying marking the passing of the days.

Margaret's presence manifests itself differently; she's lighter and has always been noiseless - like a swan, Maria liked saying. She could enter a room unnoticed, which is quite helpful when I'm with a student. Ever since Maria died I'm sleeping in her bedroom and she moved to ours, or better said, mine. I've agreed to donate my wife's clothes and Margaret spent the day doing laundry and quietly organizing things. She has done away with all the medical contraptions and substances Maria needed (I'm not sure what was returned, donated or discarded), and has set aside her mother's papers to be sorted later.

My daughter is here with me, but her gentle company and patient solicitude are not enough. I feel lonely and in need of the company of someone more in my situation. This is why Adam West's phone call comes almost providentially.

* * *

February, 21st

_Bessy:_

Margaret calls me a little out of the blue and we have tea together. She comes to my home and makes pancakes from scratch, which Phil polishes off with teenager's efficiency before bolting off to his room, where he devotes himself to a quite complicated drawing of a city he's been doing for days. Fortunately there are more pancakes for us to eat because they're delicious.

Margaret doesn't mention her grief although it's evident, and I take she needs a change of air. I don't want to burden her with my problems but she seems interested so I tell her about my job hunt. She suggests applying again with Mr. Thornton and trying to make things different this time: she says that for each problem I have I should propose a solution, and that I can't possibly be the only single parent with a school kid working at that shop. She hints that I should get a job not only for my sake but also for Phil's, and on this particular point I wholeheartedly agree.

Going up to Mr. Thornton and asking him for a job is not particularly appealing but I admit my pride has a lot to do with it. I also accept that Mr. Thornton, even if he normally scowls and barks like a bull dog, doesn't allow certain things in his shop that are common currency in other places. The pay isn't fantastic but it's not the lowest either. And there's the proximity to my house: I can commute by foot or bike.

I sleep on it and first thing next morning I call Marlborough Mills and request a meeting with Mr. Thornton.

They don't return my call.

* * *

February, 25th

I have understood, perfectly I may add, that Mr. Thornton refuses to see me because I've called every morning of this week and still haven't heard from them. There isn't much I can lose so I hop on my bike and ride to Marlborough Mills. I know Mr. Thornton usually goes out for lunch on Fridays and is back around 1.30 PM, so I wait for him in the parking lot. He arrives a little later and I approach him.

-"_Mr. Thornton! Excuse me, Mr. Thornton!_", oh my, I feel like a fool running after him in this parking lot.

He slows down and turns his head my way.

-"_Mr. Thornton, may I speak to you?_" I say a little out of breath for the exercise and the nerves clinching my stomach.

He shrugs and extends his hands apologetically. "_I'm sorry, ma'am. I really don't have time right now_", he says as he turns, and in three long steps is inside the building and out of my sight.

Oh dang. I check Mary is home by the time Phil comes from school, and I go back to my original spot and wait until he comes out. I stand for nearly five hours and I'm freezing and disheartened, but I persevere for my son and for Margaret. I would be letting both down if I gave up, even if my hopes for getting a job today are almost zero.

Everyone I recognize has left except Mr. Thornton; the secretarial staff, the cafeteria waiters and cooks, the overseers, the technicians, the janitors. The boss comes out long after the last one left and I leap from my spot and almost run to him.

-"_Mr. Thornton, excuse me. May I speak to you?_" I repeat my earlier words, the most respectful I can pull from my vocabulary.

He looks at me and raises his eyebrows in surprise when he recognizes me.

-"_You still here?_", he exclaims, "_Well, what do you want?_"

-"_My name is Bessy Higgins, sir, and I used to work as a messenger here. I would like to ask you for a job_", I say.

Mr. Thornton takes a moment to reply. I don't know if he's disconcerted by my request or he's just thinking about it.

-"_Ms. Higgins, why did you stop working as a messenger here?_" he asks while looking over my shoulder and narrows his clear, cold eyes. His turns his gaze to me at the end of the sentence, like a question mark that pins me down to the pavement.

-"_Absences, sir_", this man makes me feel even more self consciouss than the social worker who came when Phil was born, and that's to say a lot.

-"_I see_", he pauses just a second. "_Well, Ms. Higgins, thank you for your interest in working with us but we don't have jobs for people who don't come."_

I hate Mr. Thornton. I hate that his life and mine have been similar, yet just a few choices have made them so different that I have to beg for a job and he has to dismiss me with a wave of the hand.

-"_Sir, I would appreciate a yes or a no._" I don't know why I stick to this formality but at least I would like to have good manners on my side.

_-"It would be a no, Ms. Higgins. What made you think we would hire you?_" I wish someone gives Mr. Thornton the slap he deserves.

-"_Someone suggested it for the sake of my son_" I say through gritted teeth. "_But I see it was no use. Thank you for your time_", I say and I turn on my heel.

At least I tried.

Mr. Thornton is behind me and speaks again. He walks so fast that I could be running and he could still catch up with me in a leisurely stroll.

-"_Ms. Higgins, explain me one thing if you please. Why don't you look for a job somewhere else?_"

* * *

_John:_

Up to now the interview had somewhat amused me: I've seen enough of nerve from people I work with to expect pretty much anything. That she had waited for five hours, along with the formality and the mention of a son intrigued me, though.

While she spoke I observed her face, and I thought she looked vaguely familiar but I can't pinpoint exactly where or when I met her before. She's a burly young woman, with blond hair with dark roots and bad skin, the tough traces of hardship I've seen so often. Her name doesn't ring any bells unless she's the daughter of Mr. Higgins, one of the oldest technicians working in the shop.

She stops and faces me, her face red from the cold, her lips in a tight line, her eyes down. I think she takes a deep breath as she looks up and replies:

-"_Because at Marlborough Mills everyone keeps their trousers in place_".

A chill runs down my spine. Oh, shit. It's embarrassment and humiliation what makes her face go red, not the cold.

As an employee I never approved of inappropriate behavior, as an employer I always made clear it wouldn't be tolerated. That's not the case with fellow managers and I'm aware that mechanic shops are deservedly infamous.

-"_I'm glad to hear you hold us in great esteem_" I say, but it's like saying nothing.

She nods curtly, turns again and this time I don't call after her.


	24. Not left behind

February, 27th

_Daniel:_

Every last Saturday of the month I meet with friends for a game of poker. It's a riot, I reckon, to play for money with the very people who would bust on you if you were doing exactly the same thing, although Paul "Fender Bender" Henderson would brush it off adducing something sounding very vague or generic, like the right to breathe in a room full of people. I suppose that people who put their bodies and lives when on duty should, at least, have some leniency when the purpose is harmless.

John is not big on cards but he's come a time or two, and he's always welcome with the jolly chaps of the Met. He came with me tonight and he's been eyeing Simon MacGregor ever since he set foot in the building. After Simon and I get out of the round we join him in the kitchen, where he's fulfilling bartender duties tonight.

I admire John Thornton, I really have to. He laughs and jokes, but he actually corrals Simon with the cunning and agility of a feline. John's wearing black head to toe and he makes me think of a big panther - or a very menacing acolyte of Lucifer, promising eternal damnation if things go awry. Simon rogers the message: until there's solid proof against her innocence, better stay away from Miss Hale. No more interrogations, no more surprise callings. Forget she exists unless a new piece of evidence links her to the case.

Not many questions are asked from any party, and I guess Simon knows enough about John to take his, ahem, suggestion into account. I am, as well as John, aware that he'd be a fool to hide or tamper with evidence but he may choose to focus on other leads for the time being.

Sounds like a good plan, I think.

Still, being found among the contact list of the biggest drug dealer and pimp operating this side of Manchester is no good calling card for any lady. It's no wonder John's been in foul mood for days.

* * *

March, 1st

_Richard:_

My longtime friend Adam West announced he'd come visit in a few days, and it's like the first ray of sun after a long, dark and cold night. Margaret helps me have our home in order for this visit - we don't expect him to sleep on an inflatable mattress under the stairs like Frederick does. We disassemble the master bed, arrange a small service room to be used as a bedroom, and put the bed frame and some of my late wife's belongings in storage.

I have a really hard time saying Maria's name, confronting the non-negotiable reality of her death, that she's not gone on a trip or living in another country. That in spite of it being nearly half a century, my time with her is irrevocably over. Whenever I feel I've made progress, the lump in my throat is back and I have to pause and gape for air. It's been only two weeks since she died; sometimes it feels like two minutes, and sometimes, like two decades.

John is back for his lessons and, in spite of the pause, we're still on schedule for his exam. I'm glad he comes, he might not be a widower but he knows more about life than my daughter. There are things I can speak to him that she wouldn't understand.

* * *

March, 3rd

_Margaret:_

Things didn't go well with Bessy asking Mr. Thornton for a job, and I'm sad to find my friend's chances in the job market are diminished by the fact she's a single mother - the very same fact that makes a job so necessary! I also feel guilty... Bessy knew better than to ask for her job back; she must have felt humiliated and it's all my fault.

I invite her for dinner to the Black Dog and she accepts, but we won't go until Friday or Saturday. She comes pick up Phil and tells me not to worry, her smile reassuring me that she's not broken.

* * *

March, 4th

_John:_

My mind is spinning and the culprit is, as it couldn't be otherwise, Margaret Hale. She's under investigation for links with a drug and prostitution ring, and that's just... horrible. It's beyond my comprehension how could this be, how she could find herself in such predicament. I'm helping the only way I can, this is, trying to milk some sway from years of being a good (and relatively prominent) citizen. I'm not sure it'd help at all, to be honest, and I'm even afraid it backfires.

I know the prostitution ring operated in luxury hotels, providing escorts to foreign businessmen. Did she... God, it pains me to form the words, did she fall for that? Was she one of the recruits? Or a madam? I don't know what to think and my mind picks trains of thoughts of its own, driving me insane. Did she need money for something in particular? Like jewels, or clothes, or trips? I've never seen her wearing nothing out of the ordinary, never thought she would want to. The Hales are obviously not rich but they never struck me as desperate. Why, God, why?

I school myself not to jump into conclusions but the drug ring doesn't look like a better option either. I cannot think of one reason to justify it, that would match the image I have of her. It's just too awful.

I have the nagging feeling that nothing of this would have happened if I had acted differently after the attack. That, had I had more tact and waited, she would have trusted me instead of putting herself at risk, instead of doing... whatever she did.

I go to my class and I see her from the corner of my eye. She's sitting with a kid that comes often to this house; they're reading aloud from some school book. Mr. Hale tells me this kid's mother is friends with Margaret, that she's unemployed and Margaret believes the child is at risk of falling into bad habits if he fails in school.

The irony of it all just blows my mind. _  
_

* * *

Notes:I'm not sure anything Daniel says here could be true - I guess policemen interact with each other in a particular way but playing cards? Not sure at all. I just made it to echo the original, where cronism is even more blatant.

Richard Hale's views on becoming a widow are based on the book "Until there was you" by Kristan Higgins. His being able to prepare students for their exams sounds like the biggest licence I took and nobody questioned it. Hmmm...

In the original Mr. Thornton bemoans the loss of "_Margaret's pure and exquisite maidenliness_"; in my version Mr. Thornton bemoans almost the same thing. Some things haven't changed all that much, don't you think?


	25. Spring breeze

March, 5th

_Margaret:_

Mr. West, or Adam, as my father calls him, arrived early this morning in his own car from Oxford. I hadn't seen Mr. West since I left for St. Anne's more than ten years ago, but he hasn't changed at all. His booming laughter, along with his snowy white beard and twinkling blue eyes almost make you see a red and white bonnet growing on his head. I've always associated Mr. West with Christmas and I'm pleasantly surprised to see the feeling remains._  
_

Mr. West's presence in our home is like an early spring breeze. His good mood is contagious, his tales of his life in Majorca amusing, his nagging to my father lighthearted and humorous. I used to think the best word for Mr. West was "fun" but now I find it's "bonhomie".

He unpacks and takes my father out for a ride. I wouldn't think that a Friday morning in early March as being particularly propitious for a tour in Milton but our guest is undeterred. At around 11 AM I get a call from my father announcing they'll be having lunch in a museum's café, and not to expect them to be back before 4 PM.

Getting out without a plan is the wildest gallivanting my father has indulged in, perhaps, years.

* * *

_John:_

As I shave and prepare myself for the day, last week's curious interview comes to my mind. I don't feel particularly responsible for that woman's vicissitude, yet its nature is no different to what I perceive Margaret's to be, this is, the very reason why women are called the weaker sex. Because they might be morally and intellectually our equals, as skilled in leading, organizing and managing, but they only can be so as long as there are given rules abided by everyone. If there is another structure of power colliding, and I am thinking both of entitled businessmen and the often freakish ladder of power and influence of mechanical shops, then brute strength is going to solve the quandary every time. And where brute strength is concerned, there's no doubt about which is the stronger and which is the weaker sex.

_"But Margaret Hale's physical strength is the very reason you're not crippled or dead"_, a dissident inner voice interrupts. I splash aftershave and grimace with the burning effect on my skin.

"_That's true_", I agree. "_And in spite of what she said I know she regrets it_".

I return to my previous line of thought. Stronger and weaker sexes. While I understand the logic of affirming one's own manhood and position of power by becoming a sexual predator, of any kind - it's pretty easy to see actually, I personally take it as proof of exactly the opposite case. No one needs to brag about what they have plenty. Sexually harassing inferior employees is an attitude in which I only find vice and weakness of character, qualities I personally try to avoid as much as possible.

What this Higgins woman said, that she was asking for a job on someone's suggestion and for the sake of her son, and what my teacher said last time we met, that Margaret was helping a jobless friend by looking after her son, suddenly align and in a flash I remember Higgins face at Mrs. Hale's funeral. Therefore, the Higgins' boy must be the scrawny kid Margaret helps in the afternoons, and it was probably Margaret's suggestion Higgins was following.

The echoes of a heated conversation I had with Margaret months ago come back my ears. She virtually accused me of being an accomplice to a system that denied opportunities to the people that needed them most, and I retorted that said system was what allowed Milton and such opportunities to exist in the first place. That alternate systems, or even the complete lack of a system and widespread anarchy, wouldn't create the oportunities but rather the opposite. I believed I'd won that one because she quit the discussion at once, but now I'm not so sure.

I have almost finished dressing. As I slid into my coat I decide I'll ask my secretary for Ms. Higgins references. If she wasn't a troublemaker I will give her a second chance. And maybe figure out how a single mother can fit in the production line without smashing said line or said mother. Let's see if, and how, the world according to Margaret Hale works.

And though I would never admit it aloud, I admire Bessy Higgins for toughing it out with a kid on her own. My regret for not being a father myself when I had the opportunity is not something I like to dwell on; my life only moves in one direction and it's forward but somehow I feel this is a small chance to come into terms with an old, little and neglected part of myself.

* * *

_Bessy:_

Something absolutely unbelievable happened this morning. I'm still not sure I didn't dream it all.

After a week since I went up to Mr. Thornton only to have my face cut by his scorn, he called, he himself in person, and asked if I still wanted the job. I showed up in Marlborough Mills 45 minutes later and had a meeting in his office, which is less fancy than I'd expected, with him and another person, a human resources manager I think. They said they want to comply with new regulations to apply for tax breaks employing single parents, and that they'd expect me to let them know how I was doing - if I'm gone they're not eligible for the tax breaks anymore._  
_

The HR manager said they had some ideas for helping the school aged children of employees and wanted to hear suggestions. I don't know squat about why our government gives tax breaks for, but I'd give a big huzzah for this one!

* * *

Note: Am I guilty of making this Mr. Thornton too good to be true? I do think the original to be a little so where Nicholas Higgins is related.

Can you hear Mad Men's own Don Draper in Mr. Thornton's voice?

Philip Higgins would play the part of the Boucher children, but Bessy won't say "Mr. Thornton has a soft spot in his heart" because that'd sound like she has romantic thoughts, and yikes, no!


	26. Appearances

March, 6th

_Margaret:_

Bessy called yesterday and shared the good news, and I agreed we should celebrate even if I'm not really in the mood for showing my face at the Black Dog tonight. Mr. West and my father allied themselves to throw me out of the house, so to speak, on threats of challenging me to play scrabble to death - or to sleep, whichever came first.

As I walk the eight blocks from home to the pub I realize that Mr. West's presence and Bessy's joy have a strange effect on me. While Mr. West's company helps my father cope better with the first stages of widowhood, and I'm really happy for Bessy getting the job and my father not wallowing in his sadness, I admit that I used their distress as an excuse, or as a distraction maybe.

Now they're better I feel they don't need me so much anymore and my grief, my own deep grief, like a full cup I haven't dared to try, sloshes up my chest, brings a lump to my throat and floods my eyes.

My mother died and I feel I am alone in my bereavement. My father has Mr. West and Mr. Thornton, Edith and Frederick have their spouses and their babies, Bessy has her son and her job, Sylvia and Mel have each other. Who do I have?

The vision of a pair of sparkling clear eyes that tilt up at the corners comes to my mind, and I feel even more lonely by knowing what I could have had but turned down only because of misplaced pride. Is it such a crime to invite someone for dinner a little out of the blue? I don't think so. Every offensive memory about that day is about thoughts or assumptions that happened in my head: he only said good things and I willfully took them wrong.

I'm almost at the pub's corner and I slow my pace almost to a stop. I am on the verge on self pity and I hate that. Tonight is about Bessy and it would be vile of me to make it otherwise. I pull open the The Black Dog Pub and Restaurant's door and without a second thought I dive inside.

* * *

_John:_

Ah, The Black Dog Pub and Restaurant... I hadn't been here in years. Probably the seediest place where children can have fish and chips and not fall sick with some mutant bacteria. A delicate balance of flavor and uncleanlinnes my father loved, which has apparently remained unaltered all this time.

I came with two of my managers for a drink. In spite of what many seem to think I do socialize with my people outside business hours, and one of the managers will marry soon so the occasion is festive. The moment we sit down I notice both Higginses at a near table, the daughter talking animatedly, the father nodding in asent.

A while later someone else joins the party and I don't even need to raise my eyes to know who it is. My ears stubbornly delight in the velvety lower tones of her voice like a hand anticipates holding a peach. I cast a quick glance in her direction. Her dark hair is gathered in a ponytail exposing her long and lovely neck, and she's wearing a blue denim dress which looks as if it were a buttoned shirt down to her knees, pink belt marking her small waist, long pink sleeves coming down the dress' short ones, brown leather riding boots and matching purse. Does anything that doesn't fit her perfectly even exist?

It's Saturday and the place is full. Customers get up from their seats and order at the counter instead of calling the waiters, who are so few (another key feature of this fine establishment) that they're all probably in a cigarette break now. I get up and hit the loo and when I'm back, I see Margaret standing by the counter presumably waiting for a drink.

Against my will I get near her, like a moth to a flame knowing I might get hurt. I just can't not.

I stand right by her side and order a beer even if I already have one at the table. The barman hands her her drink, a tall glass with something orange with a straw and a paper umbrella, and she turns to me. The sight of her pink lips around the straw summons all kinds of wild thoughts, which come hand in hand the suspicions I've had for days. She swallows a mouthful of the drink, and smiles up at me and says hello, to which I reply only with a nod. She small talks... _how are you_'s and what not, and it crosses my mind that she was lonely and she's glad to see me. A quick look around indeed confirm that both Higginses are engrossed in conversation with other people and no one was paying attention to her.

I look into her eyes and I feel like I'm running with scissors to the edge of a cliff. A small, minuscule slip may result in irreversible major injury. She looks back smiling and chattier than I've ever seen her, and I experience the familiar feeling of being bewitched by her.

-"_Aren't you drinking too liberally?_" I interrupt pointing at her glass, now half empty.

-"_It's only orange juice_", she replies, mischief dancing in her eyes, "_but thank you for your concern_".

I'm falling under her spell; it used to be a pleasant, almost welcome sensation but now it's tainted. She smiles but looks somewhat vulnerable, and I know that when Margaret Hale is vulnerable (or hurt or sad), it's when she's most dangerous.

-"_I heard you gave Bessy Higgins a job. That's..._" she starts saying but I simply break eye contact by turning my face as if I hadn't heard her, and leave her midsentence. In the reflection in the window I can see she's staring at me, mouth agape, but she lowers her face and turns back to the counter and her drink. She rummages in her bag for some bills and coins, which she places next to the glass and leaves for her table. There she takes her jacket and gestures to her friends, pointing her head and shrugging. Yes, the old headache excuse, I've heard it myself a handful of times.

She gets to the door and off the pub in record time.

I don't feel any remorse for not wanting to listen to her - apparently I wasn't the only one there who thought there was better company to enjoy, but I'm curious about the drink. The glass is still on the counter and I'm there in a few steps.

I decide I'll try it; if she told the truth and was only juice then I'll make sure she gets home safe, for my teacher's sake.

* * *

_"Who drinks only orange juice a Saturday night in a pub?"_, I have to wonder.

I'm following Margaret from a hundred yard distance. I don't want to walk her home because I don't trust myself around her and because I know how harsh she can be with unwelcome company, and honestly, I'm not in the mood.

Her walk is light and easy, her figure tall and graceful. She stops every so often to pull a handkerchief from her pocket and I wonder if she's aware of being observed, if this image of sadness and loneliness is real or just a stunt.

In no time she gets to her home. She pauses a moment after she unlocks the door, and disappears in the light cozy inside from which manly laughter can be heard.

Sad and lonely, my ass.


	27. At the artist's

March, 10th

_Sylvia:_

When the inspiration muses drop by my shop they usually find me at work. Melanie calls my paint shop "the office", because I stick to routines and, yes, I normally work 9 to 5 and I rest on weekends. When I was younger I felt I needed to justify my career in art and explain why I am very disciplined but that's not the case anymore.

Lately the muses seem to have taken permanent residency; for the past days I've been working frantically spurred by an e-mail Margaret sent me in the early hours of Sunday. It was a reply to my condolences for the death of her mother, which I had carefully worded "your irreplaceable loss" and spoke about memories and growth.

Margaret's message is, in many ways, indescribable. It's long, of about 5.000 words, with quite a few typos and absence of any grammatical rules in some passages. It starts normal enough: that a former colleague of her parents is visiting, that her father is disconsolate and that she had prepared herself better, but then derives into a glorious mess the likes I'd seldom seen. What amazed me is that this apparent jumble of adjectives, commas and arbitrary use of uppercase do convey a clear message, one of unspeakable grief and isolation, of heartbreak and confusion, and mostly of fear: fear of oblivion and decay; a fear that included not only death but also life. It is so deeply moving and inspiring in its messiness that I'm bursting with ideas to develop into new series I'm planning.

I am under the impression that the message was a catharsis for some unpleasant experience but I will probably never know. Sunday evening she called and requested that we'd never discuss its contents (I will of course comply), but she didn't ask me to destroy it either. I printed it and have read it so many times that I'll probably memorize it soon.

There is a passage that particularly intrigues me. It reads: "_The orange juice tasted of salty tears and pricked my throat like thistles, and then it fell like a plummet straight to my lie. I am sorry, I am so sorry. Do you think that orange forgave me for drinking her entrails instead of leaving it to its baby orange seeds? I wouldn't have forgiven me, because I didn't honour it and remained thirsty. I am so thirsty, this mask is so thirsty. Black dog, please forgive it and satiate it._"

Margaret may not mention this message ever again, but this secret door to the innermost workings of her mind along with her breaking down the last time she visited, have brought about a suggestion I've been putting away for quite some time. Once Mel arrived from work (she does work in a real office, with wall to wall carpeting and secretaries), I discussed it with her and she agreed.

Melanie Sanders was the first person to ever buy a painting of mine. She then found me a dealer, and has managed my earnings ever since they could be called as such. She invested, bought, sold, and amassed my comparatively small (but definitively solid) fortune. Her blessing to my idea is all I need.

I don't think I'll dwell on it too much or too often once I've signed that paper. After all, I'm not yet forty and according to life expectancy statistics, I have almost as much to go.

* * *

Note: I do regret my shortcomings as a writer with every word I type, but this is the chapter where I regret them the most.


	28. We'll see

March, 11th

_Edith:_

Last Sunday I received an e-mail from my cousin; she asks me how my pregnancy is going and says she's looking forward the nuchal translucency photos and video.

I can't believe how strong Margaret is, how she manages to deal with the death of my aunt. In spite of the joviality of the message I imagine she's sad, and I take it upon myself to distract her so I reply with a detailed message of the things we're planning for the baby's room.

What I don't tell her, although I would if her situation was different, is that lately Henry seems a little wistful. He went out with a girl very shortly but things didn't work out, and, well, he's the same smart aleck of always but I think he misses Margaret.

I believe he wrote her a message of condolences but haven't heard anything from any of them. To be honest I still have hopes of them getting together again, but whenever I mention it Ian just rolls his eyes at me.

* * *

_Richard:_

Adam is staying with us until next Monday and I seize the opportunity to introduce him to Mr. Thornton. They get along very well, and Adam takes over Margaret to bring the tray with the tea and pastries we always have at the end of the lesson.

As a former dean in a small Oxford college who attempted to attract adult students, Adam is quite interested in talking to John. Soon they engage in a discussion that reminds me the ones Margaret used to have with him, although less heated; Adam is an expert where debate is involved and it's almost impossible to force him into a _faux pas, _and John is no fool either.

They are discussing acting over unconfirmed assumptions. How they got there, I have no idea, but I listen with great attention. Adam, the elderly scholar, states that it's always best to allow the benefit of the doubt to avoid regrets while John, the young pragmatic businessman, veers towards making decisions from available evidence and avoid hesitation or inaction. They seem to agree that burning the bridges doesn't sound like a good strategy in the long run, but I seem to perceive they're talking about something else I'm not aware of.

After my student leaves my friend congratulates me on this new acquaintance of mine and calls Margaret, who's been upstairs most of the afternoon, to arrange dinner.

* * *

_Frederick:_

I wonder how my sister and father are doing in their mourning. I think I'm dealing very well with it; she was my mother, of course, but I hadn't lived with her for many years and there's the fact that I'm going to be a father. It's not that the pain is less, that the loss is devoid of substance, but I don't have to adjust to new routines, to her absence. It seems to be mostly intellectual and not physical, unlike, I assume, my father and Margaret.

Sometimes I wish my sister could put into words exactly how she's feeling, how she's processing the death of our mother and dealing with our father, but then again, I wouldn't know what to do or say if she did. I am selfishly grateful of her lightheartedness, actually, and I promise myself I'll pay her back one day.

I know that Mr. Thornton still goes for his classes and this interaction seems to be quite important to my father, who speaks often and highly of him. Margaret told me Mr. West is currently visiting, so I suppose they relieve my sister of the weight of my father's sorrow. I'm happy to know my father is in good company and I do wonder how much of it extends to my sister.

Dolores keeps an active correspondence with Margaret and hopes they'll come to Spain when our daughter is born, in about three months from now. I think it's a wonderful plan but Cádiz is quite hot from June to September, and I'm not sure my father will dare.

When I share my misgivings with her, my wife simply puts her hands over her beachball sized belly and smiles.

-"_Ya lo veremos"_, she says. "_We'll see_"


	29. Perspicacity

March, 14th

_Bertha:_

Today marks a month since Maria died. Margaret called and asked me, really asked and it was not a rhetorical question, how I was doing. I've always been closer to Frederick - the fact that he's biological while she's adopted is not of minor importance for me but I admit she's a really nice girl. A good daughter, even if she stabbed Maria by getting in touch with the woman who gave her up, but otherwise attentive and considerate.

Her concern for my grief is so kind that I regret not having been closer to her while she was a child. This call notwithstanding, I am aware that I'm drifting away from the Hale household. One month... for almost fifty years it had never been that long without dropping by or calling each other.

Soon we'll probably be estranged. I am sorry but only to a certain extent. It was Maria the one who was my friend, and with her gone there isn't much in common left.

* * *

_Margaret:_

After last Saturday's memorable evening at the Black Dog, yet memorable for only wrong reasons, I've spent a lot of time in my room. I have a small desk my laptop fits perfectly and a cozy chair, the late winter sun comes from a window and it's very pleasant up here.

Every morning at 8 AM I prepare breakfast and discuss with Mr. West the plans for the day (he does plan everything even if it may not seem so), meals included. Mornings are devoted to housekeeping and afternoons to myself. I've been writing to almost everyone in my acquaintance (not to Henry, though), and also, I've been looking around to either get a job or go back to study some more, or maybe both.

There are a couple of good courses in Manchester and I write requesting further information. They start in August and even if it seems far I guess now it's as good time as any.

This week Phil only came after school just once, yesterday, and I'm glad it didn't coincide with Mr. Thornton's class. Last time we met I made such a fool of myself! Why did I think he wanted to hear my thanks for hiring Bessy? It was such a surprise to find him there, and when he approached the counter I thought... I wanted to think that maybe... it doesn't matter. I was wrong. I hope he didn't notice me leaving the pub because that would have been too embarrassing.

Mr. West takes over my duties of opening the door and making tea but I have the feeling that he suspects something. In the days since his arrival he's struck me as possibly the most perceptive man I know, and it's hard to hide things from him but fortunately, he's also supremely discreet.

Coming down the stairs after Mr. Thornton's car left our street I hear him praising my father's student, and not for the first time I try unsuccessfully to remember what was it that I didn't like about him the first time we met.

Mr. West leaves tomorrow afternoon for a few days in Oxford with his daughter but I'm sure we'll see him again soon.

* * *

_Bessy:_

Last Saturday Margaret left early, right after she had a few words with Mr. Thornton. I wonder if he poisoned her drink. Thing is, a while after she left he came up to me and asked if it was Margaret that "someone" who had suggested my asking for my job back. When I said that was right, he asked why I hadn't named her before and I told him, clearly, that I rather owe favors one person at a time.

He laughed at me when he heard that but it wasn't a mean laugh. Beneath his bulldog ways I think Mr. Thornton is a good person.

He talked a little more asking questions about my son, and asked for my opinion about a daycare room at the shop (or very near), so children would go there from school, have activities or someone supervise their homework until the parents pick them up in their way out from work, and everyone would get home together.

I thought it was a great idea and I sat down to sketch a more detailed plan taking into account all I know from other employees' children, a grand total of three dozens or so. I asked Margaret for his opinion too, and she said that a shy child like Phil may have a hard time adapting and perhaps scholarships were a better idea. She instructed me to think it over, and I still think the daycare is a better idea.


	30. Trickle to a stream

March, 30th

_John:_

Bessy Higgins came to me with pretty much what was my original idea, written down and with most details sorted out and, take this, a few alternative scenarios if key things don't work out. It even had detailed budgets estimated for each scenario, and what definitely put a seal on her involvement was that they all included the employees paying for a part of it.

I am pleased to find that she has a good head for lower level management. Even if her top qualification is a driving permit for bikes, I think we should give her a chance to prove herself in office work. I think she'll like it and who knows, maybe even thrive. I know it better than any book could say that the best way to earn employees' loyalty is by being loyal oneself.

I want to hear about her son and she needs a little prodding - but not much, after all she's a mother. Knowing about that kid makes me feel closer to Margaret, a window to her thoughts I can't possibly have. Philip, that's his name, is shy and has struggled at school but since Margaret came into the picture he's improved greatly. Apparently Margaret realized where was the root of a few of Philip's issues and has helped him overcome some of his fears.

At this point Bessy Higgins, whose face has the femininity of a boxer's, wells up and she fishes a folded piece of paper from her back pocket and hands it over. I unfold it to find a charming child's drawing depicting a domestic scene, where among other people I think I recognize Margaret. The drawing hasn't much formal technique; the artist is eight years old and it shows, but it's really beautiful and it seems this child found a way to express himself and, no doubts about it, has talent.

It was Margaret who encouraged him to stop doodling and start drawing, the one who turned that trickle to a stream.

I'm not surprised.

* * *

It's late in the night and I'm brushing my teeth, almost ready to go to sleep. Today I had class with Mr. Hale but didn't see Margaret. I was almost hoping to meet her, that she would hear of the employees' daycare project from me, but no such luck.

I haven't seen her much lately, only twice actually. Once she simply opened the door for me and left the house immediately, and once when Mr. West was leaving. She was sitting at the dining table with a mug in her hands, looking at the window absentmindedly and Mr. West stood by her side and told her in low voice "_Hold on, my dear. Hold on_". She didn't stir except for a weak smile.

I look up to my face in the mirror. I need a haircut.

I didn't have to walk out on her that night, to make her think she was going home alone. I didn't have to be so severe, no, cruel. I could have excused me, I could have let her talk. I told myself I didn't feel any remorse but that's all crap and I'm an ass. She was barely holding herself together, no, she was crying on her way home and it was because of me, and I know this is worthless to say or even think, but I'm sorry, Margaret, I'm so sorry.

_"Margaret, I wish I could hate you half of what I already love you. I just have too much and I don't know what to do with it, it leaks out from me and in your distance takes strange shapes". _I rub and scratch the stubble on my jaw to prevent any more words spilling out, as if preventing them from taking a corporeal sound form would make them any less real.

It is ironic, I think, that where others are involved Margaret manages to bring out the best in me yet I only seem to have harshness and insolence for her. Why is that? Am I so shriveled up after so many years of not loving anyone that I can't respond properly?

I've slided into bed now, and I sit to read before sleep deigns to stop by. But before I open my book I pull open the little drawer on my bedside table and take out one of the two only objects occupying that space. It's a drinking straw, with a lingering smell of orange juice and a shadow of dark pink lipstick near the short end. The other object, also a straw (one from a restaurant still in its paper wrap), is there just to keep it company.

I carefully put it back, push the drawer shut and get on my reading.

Loneliness is a tough affair.

* * *

Note: For the purposes of story pacing I am making Mr. Hale and Margaret's grieving processes quite fast, so now I'll leave them mourn in peace. Echoing another story makes fanfic a bit strange, I think.


	31. April

April, 29th

_Margaret:_

It's Friday and after much hesitation I make myself attend a volleyball game. I've hardly come since January; my shoulder took weeks to heal completely and after my mother died I simply don't have the energy. Bessy stopped coming altogether. She struggles to make ends meet and physical exercise is not a priority.

I let out a sigh that empties my lungs. I'm sitting on a dressing room bench, the locker open before me, my belongings in sight. I'm dressed in my volleyball clothes and I look almost like the St. Anne's middle hitter and blocker I once was, though I have changed so much I'm surprised my clothes took no notice and still fit.

I now know what it feels like to lose one's mother (losing a limb can't be too different), and what it is like to get involved with really nasty people and lie to a Police detective.

I have experienced being in a romantic relationship and being proposed marriage. What it is like when the one who kissed and held me left me cold, and more recently, what it is like to experience an inner maelstrom for someone who can't stand the sight of me.

I now know what it feels like to reject and lose affection but I still don't know how it feels like to earn and accept it, to make it grow within myself.

The best thing I can say about myself these days is that I'm a good liar. The detective hasn't contacted me again.

I feel so lonely.

* * *

I get out the dressing room, up the stairs and through the dimly lit corridor to the volleyball court. Mr. West will come again in a couple of weeks and he and I will work to make my father get out the house.

Mr. West sometimes includes a stop in Cádiz (something to do with his own businesses) and he takes time to visit Frederick. I decide I'll send something for my niece, who in just a few weeks may make her appearance.

There's a small square window on the corridor close to the basketball court's door. The lights on the court are on and the difference in lighting makes it almost like a black window. I glance lazily inside and I notice Mr. Thornton playing tonight.

I slower my pace to a stop and return, my eyes glued to that little window. There are about ten people playing basketball, including three women, and they look as if they've been playing for a while. Mr. Thornton's tall and lean body dribbles and spins fast among the other players, and jumps high to dunk the ball in the basket farther from my window. His legs are long and muscular, his shirt is glued to his broad chest, his dark hair is dripping with sweat.

The shrill sound of a whistle makes the game stop and the players relax. One of the female players talks to Mr. Thornton and he looks back at her with a smile and replies, I see his lips moving. Most players move to one side of the court, where they pick up plastic bottles or towels. Mr. Thornton drinks some water from his bottle, and then he throws back his head and squirts some over his face.

My God. My eyes dilate, my mouth feels dry, my heartbeat pounds in my ears. Oh my God.

He is so... beautiful and so... so manly. I'm at a loss for words but for one question: how could I ever not appreciate this man before my eyes?

He looks my way and though I'm sure he can't see me (the corridor's light is too low and there's a net before the window), that's all I need. I turn on my heels and go back to the dressing room. Twenty minutes later I'm back at home, and tell my father the game was suspended and the other exercise rooms were full.

We watch TV together for about half an hour and then we retire to our respective bedrooms. I actually feel blushing when I close the door behind me. My God.


	32. Here and there

May, 16th

_Richard:_

John came for his class this afternoon straight from his office as scheduled. Right before his arrival I tried to open one of my desk's drawers but it was stuck; after I let him in I went back to my drawer but with no avail.

John inquired about the matter and, being such a practical man, he lowered himself to one knee by the desk and inspected it from under. By stretching one arm and with no further tool than an experienced and capable hand, he dislodged the little object that was locking the drawer and slid it open. Before he got back to his feet, Margaret spoke from the hallway and said she'd be back in two hours.

After this interruption is over we start and carry on with the lesson as planned. While my student is reading one of the exercises I inspect the offending object. It's an awful cardboard box with a ripped lid, containing an ornate antique inkwell I bought in a flea market many years ago; pretty, though not exactly valuable. I don't remember ever putting it in this box, but here it was.

John asks me about it and I get the impression that he really appreciates art nouveau. I register this detail in a mental note.

* * *

_Sylvia:_

A few days ago I sent Margaret a parcel with fresh and dried herbs - some from my herb garden in our summer home in Helstone, some from the market. Inspiration struck because of Margaret mentioned her father cutting off salt and struggling to instill some flavor to her dishes, so I made sure I included some recipes for meals and herb mixtures.

She phones me today to thank me for the herbs and asks me:

-"_Sylvia, what do you get if you mix ____admiration_, thankfulness_, _lust and regret in a pot and you leave it simmering... for a while?"

-"_You don't mention affection, but still",_ I reply,_ "__minus regret_, I get Melanie". "_And minus lust it would be you_" dances on the tip of my tongue but I swallow it back; I'd hate being so obvious.

-"_Mmmh_", the line is silent for a few seconds. "_I'll change the subject now... How is your book coming along? Did that obnoxious art critic finally grasped anything about your art?_"

I let out a good laugh. Margaret met once the art critic who was trusted with (or was simply thrust) the task of writing a book about me and my art, and didn't like her at all. I admit the critic can come across as dense even if she is well respected, but what makes my spirits soar about the event is that Margaret believed me to deserve something better.

As for the book, I wouldn't have thought there was enough interest in my art to grant having a book written and printed but apparently there's a small art publishing house who see potential in my paintings, and they want to have, so to speak, the scoop. Working on this book is a practice of unabashed vanity, an ego trip to the moon and back, but both Melanie and Margaret said I should go ahead with the project and make it worthwhile. Given that I have a small but faithful group of people who buy my paintings and come to my openings, it might be a good idea to have a book to send them as an appreciation gift.

Before we end the conversation I tell Margaret about an invitation I received: next July I'll go to Japan for an exhibition and I'll also give a couple of workshops. I've taught color theory and technique workshops in different art departments of European universities but I've never been to Asia. Margaret listens attentively to my blabber and congratulates me on this recognition.

* * *

_Frederick:_

Mr. West came to Cádiz for business and stayed with us overnight. He is so friendly and independent that it's always a pleasure to receive him, however, once our daughter is born he'll probably prefer staying in an inn.

He talks about my father and his only remaining student, Mr. Thornton. He doesn't say anything in particular (Mr. West is the perfect politician in that regard), but I think I'd enjoy talking to him, even if just as my father's friend.

I don't know when I'll go to Milton again. Dolores' pregnancy is almost full term and she doesn't want to travel with a newborn baby, and needless to say, I'm not eager to leave them on their own.

* * *

Bessy:

This daycare project is sailing smoothly but it takes quite a lot of work! Budget numbers, keeping track of children who attend and personnel hired is hard work. Mr. Thornton lets me have two hours on the clock, but still I bring home part of it.

This is why I've been seeing less of Margaret. I make a mental note of inviting her this weekend and make tea, because this feels quite unfair to her. Then again, she has her own things to worry about. I don't want to be on her hair and I don't want her to feel I've tossed her like an old broom. Where's the balance?


	33. The match

A/N: There's a small inconsistency in language use in this chapter. I write in American English so I should refer to football as soccer, but given that soccer is just a horrible word I stick with football. Please understand it as the FIFA regulated game and not "bawl" (or Aussie rules ;-) ).

* * *

June, 4th

_Margaret: _

When Mr. West announced he'd come to visit my father again he suggested attending a football match. I'd let them come to this quintessential temple of manliness on their own, but it seemed they expected me to join them and it didn't sound like a bad plan for a sunny Saturday afternoon.

Now we're sitting in the special visitor's area. Not exactly a luxury box - I think of Edith's friends and their boxes so detached from the reality of the game, but we're a little more comfortable in shaded plush seats than the sea of heads before us.

As it seems to be the case with every stone I turn in this town, Mr. Thornton's company is involved in some sort of sponsorship with the home team. Milton's Centennial Stadium is small but can hold 8.000 people and is well kept, even for a football stadium. Home arena of the Darkshire Wolves, Miltoners love coming here and speaking of the championship cup won five years ago, with a devotion that nears fanaticism. The Manchester City and Manchester United are bitter enemies of these grounds.

The tickets, I find out now, were a gift from Mr. Thornton and, sure enough, he's standing not far from us. He's wearing jeans and a blue tartan shirt that brings out the color of his eyes, the sleeves rolled up let muscular forearms on sight. I don't remember having seen him in casual wear but it doesn't matter. He looks just... as delectable as he always does. Not without effort I avert my eyes for fear of embarrassing me, but my God, every time we met I'm surprised again by his handsomeness.

How did I manage not to see this? Do I need a white cane and wearing indoor sunglasses?

He shakes hands with my father and Mr. West and chats amiably with them while barely acknowledging my presence with a slight bow of the head. A waiter appears with refreshments: the men have beers and I have a soda, but when I try to pay the waiter politely refuses. I steal a glance at Mr. Thornton and I think he's rolling his eyes, and I feel small and inadequate.

The game starts and I regret coming. I should have imagined that old friends Hale and West would be merry in each other's company, and with the added thrill of my father's new friend and hero there's no reason for me to be here. It seems contradictory that in such a sunny day a tight pack of dark thoughts should maraud me, but here we are. Lately I've been feeling a little... somber, perhaps. I'm lost in thought and don't notice my father and Mr. West getting up. Suddenly I'm aware that I'm sitting next to Mr. Thornton and we're silent.

I wonder who first discovered that watching a game, no matter the sport, is prefab companionable silence and thus should be announced in tickets. "_Tolerate odious company. Buy 90 minutes of companionable silence, with optional subjects of inconsequential praise and hatred included in the package!_" or something. In spite of this obvious fact I attempt a conversation asking him how his classes are going and unsurprisingly his answers are short. I'm aware that he might be watching the game and I might be bothering him but I need to shake off the gloomy feeling and I totter to the only innocuous subject we have in common, this is, my father.

Though he probably knows it already I tell him my father can read and write Latin. Of my father making jokes in Latin, and of the school performance where I was a witch (naturally) and he wrote some mock spells for my character. I still remember some of those mock spells so I repeat one aloud, dramatically waving my hand as if cursing the ground.

I haven't been paying any attention to the game but the sudden silence and ensuing deafening tidal wave of noise makes me look at a screen in a wall near for the replay. The goalkeeper of the other team (Lakes Monsters, or something like that) had the ball in his hands and was ready to pass it to a teammate, when the ball just jumped up and off his hands as if pulled by a string and bounced cheerfully into the net. I am trying to discern whether the people are happy or outraged when I notice Mr. Thornton's reaction out the corner of my eye. He looks surprised but then his face goes back to its stony indifference, and with a quick look to my general direction he mutters: "_We haven't got to that lesson yet._"

I'm puzzled by this reply and it occurs to me that he's joking. I don't think I've ever pictured him anywhere near humor, so serious, so driven, but now I suspect that's just one side of him. I look back at him but he isn't smiling and forgot me already.

My father and Mr. West are back and I try to join their conversation. Mr. West's witty humor dissing the Northerners and Milton make Mr. Thornton uncomfortable, who instead of taking it with a light heart tries to rebut every comment with a vehement defense of his home grounds. They get into a pointless argument on whether the stadium is fit for an Olympic game in which Mr. Thornton tries to get the upper hand but gets more and more incensed (I believe my presence has something to do with his discomfort), so I try to steer the conversation to a neutral subject.

-"_I believe we're going to have rain tomorrow. It's a pity we'll have to stay indoors_" I say. Oh weather, weather, what would we talk about if it weren't for you?

- "_Oh dear,_" replies my father, "_you'll have to postpone getting into the garden as you had planned._"

-"_Not at all,_" intervenes Mr. West, "_I am sure Margaret won't let a thing like summer rain get in her way._" He turns at Mr. Thornton and adds: "_Margaret doesn't mind dealing with some dirt now and then_".

-"_Really?_", says Mr. Thornton and looks right into my eyes for the first time this afternoon, for the first time in I don't know how long, and it's not a friendly glance. "_You don't say_".

My face momentarily freezes in shock, my breath catches in my chest. It becomes clear as day that Mr. Thornton knows about me and the drug dealer. He was at home when the detective came, after all. He knows and he disapproves and there is nothing I can do, because he is right.

I clamp my lips shut. I withdraw from the conversation and lower my gaze to my hands first and then to the green below us, fascinated by the whiteness of the painted lines. I really don't want any of them to see my eyes are brimming with tears, of embarrassment and regret, so I scratch my temple idly only to hide my face a little better under my hat. I can feel Mr. Thornton's accusing eyes on me but I can't take more of his scorn and I don't look up, not even when we get up and head for the car. We ride in a silence only broken by Mr. West's condemnation of our host.

-"_He had struck me as a sensible man before, but now I see that success has spoiled him. How disgusting!_" he says, but I feel I must defend Mr. Thornton, for my dignity's sake.

-"_He must have had a bad day. He's usually more agreeable, isn't he, Dad?_".

-"_Oh yes, yes Margaret_," agrees my father, but he's looking out the window and he probably has no idea of what we're talking about.

For a moment Mr. West's narrowed eyes dart to mine through the rear view mirror, but he doesn't say anything else. When we arrive I go to the kitchen to prepare dinner and we don't mention Mr. Thornton again.

* * *

Note: This chapter echoes Ch. 40 "Out of tune", which contains the wonderful sentence "_Margaret felt, rather than saw, that Mr. Thornton was chagrined by the repeated turning into jest of what he was feeling as very serious_". perhaps my favorite of the whole book.


	34. The line

June, 5th

_John:_

-"_I crossed a line there, didn't I?_"

Yesterday started well enough. She was wearing jeans and a bluish flowery top, and I couldn't help thinking that we seemed dressed to match. Did she notice that too? Then she talked, I wasn't sure whether to me or to herself, but then the others came back and broke the spell. I was off balance and fell for Mr. West's tricks like a pretentious boy, a ridiculous rooster trying to defend his grounds from a goose. And then, she intervened.

I look outside the window to the dusk skies. A large bird circles and planes over the roofs of a row of houses. My notebook with exercises lays open on the table before me.

It was supposed to be humorous and reassuring comment. To make it clear that I was in the know and she could count on me. But I have the subtlety of a bull in a china shop and everything turned out just messy. It wasn't reassuring but accusing, and it was uncalled for.

The only solution I can think of, even if I hate it, is that I must stop seeing Margaret. It seems that every time we meet I do something abominable. It's obviously not my intention but I own my actions and mistakes, and this simply cannot go on.

I'll call Mr. Hale and arrange to have the lessons somewhere else, maybe at the Mills or my home. I can have a car to pick him up and send him back to his home after the lesson. I don't think he'll be inconvenienced; besides the exam is only three weeks away.

I wish I could apologize but right now I'm convinced that if I come near I will crush her a bone. If I send her a bouquet, the vase will break and cut her or she'll be allergic to just those flowers. If I get her something good like chocolates, she'll probably choke or have an indigestion and end up at the hospital.

I don't know when or how things got so off my hands, but they did and I must do something about it. For her sake I better stay away. I know it looks like cowardice but it's exactly the opposite.

* * *

June, 8th

_Margaret:_

Mr. West goes back to Majorca after a week and my father is alone again. Mr. Thornton's exam is near and my father is going to miss him as much as he misses my mother, my brother and Mr. West. My heart squeezes a little when I think how he must have felt my brother and I going away so soon, but I remind myself that back then he had a wife and a job to keep him occupied.

We are having dinner one evening and talking about my plans for the future when I hear him clear his throat and I raise my eyes from my meal to meet his. He leaves the fork on the table and out of the blue asks me:

- "_Margaret, is there something between you and John Thornton?_"

Blood drains from my face and comes back in a rush and I feel slightly sick. He notices my discomfort, or my silence, and adds:

- "_Adam mentioned something and I just wondered. I don't mean to pry, babycake, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to._"

And I don't want to tell him because I don't want to inflict any more pain to his old heart, but he is my father, we're talking about his friend, and he deserves to know the truth, so I carefully choose my words when I say:

- "_He had feelings for me, he expressed them and I didn't_ _reciprocate_._" _Is there anything else to say? I don't think so._ "It's all in the past now. I am sorry... he's your friend._"

The remorse I still feel about my behavior that day brings a lump to my throat and I bend my head over my plate. My father seems satisfied with my reply and doesn't ask any more. But I can't help myself and I break down in tears.

He nods understandingly, pats my head and offers to clear the table when we're done.

* * *

June, 9th_  
_

Teaching Mr. Thornton's class is now my father's most important item of his daily routine. He gets dressed for it, he plans his days around it. From what he says I'm inclined to believe that Mr. Thornton is capable to prepare for his exam with a fortnight's worth of study, but my father insists and brings in more materials, more previous exams, more practice. Mr. Thornton treats his teacher with utmost respect, but my father really looks up at him as I don't think he's ever done with a student; when he quotes Mr. Thornton's opinions I can only hear admiration.

By the way my father speaks about Mr. Thornton I surmise they don't spend much time studying, and I wonder why a businessman spares time of his schedule to talk to an old, heartbroken scholar. Actually I do know: it's because they are friends, and I wordlessly thank Mr. Thornton every day for it.

"_Who do you think you are?_", I asked him that distant January day. I wish I had known the answer before asking the question.

* * *

Note: Obviously the story could end right here with a simple conversation, but Gaskell didn't deem so and I abide.


	35. Olive branch

June, 10th

Frederick:

Olivia Hale-Barbour, my daughter, was born today via emergency c-section. It's been the happiest and scariest day of my life: Dolores said she was feeling strange so we went to the hospital. Right after our arrival they tried to find the baby's heartbeat but they found none.

They performed the cesarean and took the baby out in about four minutes, which felt like four hours waiting barefoot on an iceberg, after which we found that Dolores was having preeclampsia and that was affecting Olivia. They rushed Olivia to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unite, the NICU, and some hours later, which alternatively feel like days or seconds, Mother Nature is performing her miracle and my daughter, after fighting off quite the rocky start and soiling her first diaper, sleeps peacefully.

Her crib is surrounded by beeping machines and medical stuff I can't possibly name but I seem to be blind to those for I simply cannot take my eyes out of her. I've tried to snap pictures but they don't do her any justice. Photographs can hardly catch the impossible softness of her skin, the roundness of her cheeks, the perfect tiny hands and feet. Still, I take one of her face (the hat and blanket take most of it but there's the nose and a hand poking out) and send it to my sister.

Thirty seconds later I get a message from Margaret, asking if she can call. She does, and the brand new aunt is just so excited that I am happy to provide the first real source of joy since our mother died. Both Olivia and Dolores need to stay at the hospital for a few days and summer in Cádiz is quite hot, so I don't think grandpa Hale will be visiting any time soon. It doesn't matter because there will be time for that.

* * *

_Edith:_

Oh, Olivia is so cute! And she'll be friends with my little boy, who is due on early September. It's all so nice... I wonder when Margaret will join our little club. I'm losing my hopes with Henry and her getting back but as they say, there's plenty more fish in the sea, isn't there?


	36. Leaving home

June, 30th

_Margaret:_

After Mr. Thornton's exam date has passed, Mr. West takes it upon himself to cheer my father up. He invites him over to Majorca but my father is wary of the heat, so they'll meet in Oxford and stay at Fiona West's. They have old gentlemen's plans: attending exhibits at museums and plays at theaters, reading in parks, watching football and going to bed early.

My father is in high spirits as I hadn't seen him in a while. He's looking forward this visit, he packs and unpacks his suitcase a few times, checks and double checks his medicine bag for pills and ointments curing everything from common cold to mosquito bites, and chatters happily during our cab ride to the station. He promises to write and send pictures (though I don't think he knows how to download them from his phone), and I stay in the platform, near his window, to wave him goodbye when the trains leaves.

Back at home, in this large and silent house, I apply myself to undisturbed work. I promised Bessy help searching for funding agencies and the application processes, I'm still on the lookout for a job and undecided on the courses I wanted to take.


	37. Friday

July, 15th

_Daniel:_

When things get really frustrating at work, when I can't believe policemen are trusted with security when they don't seem to understand it at all, I feel like a leashed beast and I truly need to rough someone up at the gym. Most basketball players aren't adverse to some light scuffling but tonight it's just three of us. Short of engaging in boxing or bullying, this doesn't look promising.

The volleyball court is swarmed tonight. Sport for sissies, dang... but I move there; at least I can kill some balls and take some steam off. The presence of a certain brunette on court doesn't help me feel zen, but this is not a yoga class so I grit my teeth and get on with it.

Miss Not Goody Two-Shoes Hale plays in my team tonight; winning has somehow lost its appeal but I'm sure I'll have some fun. In the full rotation we play two shifts together in front of the net and two in the back. I'm bigger and I make sure she notices: I steal at least two kills from her by bumping her and pushing her around.

When we're not up front I pass the ball to her awkwardly; if she's such a brilliant player she should be able to deal with it. Ha! She can't and our team loses valuable points on her faults, and what is most satisfying, she falls on her behind trying. Alright, people fall on their asses all the time in volleyball, but this one is priceless.

She checks one of her wrists with the other hand... have I been so lucky she injured herself on my pass? Nah. She narrows her eyes - oh, but she got my message, didn't she? From then on she certainly gets out of my way. Good that she knows where she belongs.

After forty-five minutes we finish playing and everyone goes to the side of the court to pick up their belongings, mostly towels and bottles, on their way to the showers. I'm almost at the door of the corridor leading to the men's locker room when a female voice behind me stops me on my tracks.

-"_Excuse me! Sir!_"

I would ignore it but it's too commanding and I'm not to scurry away like a cockroach. I turn and put on my most bored and unconcerned face. Miss Hale is some five meters away and walking to me.

Crap, up close she's even prettier.

-"_Excuse me... Mr. Donaldson, right?_"

I nod and try to intimidate her with the most basic thing a sweaty man can do to a sweaty woman, this is, giving her a slow once over and lingering a bit too long on the pillows.

Miss Hale doesn't deign to take offense or even take notice. Nice try, but I'm not letting her take the wind off my sails.

-"_Mr. Donaldson, I'm under the impression that you thought me deserving of punishment. I would like to know the charges to defend myself accordingly_."

Alright, John likes this woman and with good reason. I cross my arms over my chest so it looks wider and my biceps bulge. Denying knowledge would be the safer way to go (after all volleyball can be a physical game), but I'm not playing safe.

-"_Miss Hale, you cannot do what you did to John Thornton and expect sympathy, do you?_" My voice comes out in a menacing growl.

She narrows her eyes and knits her eyebrows.

-"_And what exactly did I do to Mr. Thornton to earn your reproof? Mind to enlight me?_"

She hasn't crossed her arms or anything yet she would make a lesser man shrink. Not me, though.

-"_You keep bad companies but you have a good friend in John. Why do you think the Police let you off the hook so easily with the drug and prostitution investigation?_" I say, "_Uh?_" I add so show her who is in charge.

Her eyes widen and her pouty mouth forms a perfect O, just for a moment unfortunately.

-"_I wasn't aware of any prostitution charges_", she says quietly and clears her throat. "_I suppose I'm not the first one to say this, but it wasn't what it looked like_". She looks down and blinks repeatedly, and I can't help believing her, that there had to be a good reason.

To her credit she doesn't play the lady in distress card; instead she holds herself together at once and looks at me with dignity.

-"_Don't fool yourself with hope, Miss Hale_" I don't want her to suspect my previous thoughts or suspect weakness. "_He did it for your father_". I'm not sure that's complete true but she doesn't need to know that.

The lady in front of me nods.

-"_My father is fortunate to have such a good friend, and so are you. Thank you for answering my questions, Mr. Donaldson. Good evening_".

With that she turns on her heel and leaves. Instead of the satisfaction I anticipated, I get the feeling I might have put my foot in my mouth.

* * *

I don't go home but show up at the pub. A detective is retiring after many years with the Police and it's being celebrated accordingly. John came with me and we hang out together, we speak about the things we usually do (the quest for a new car being my current obsession), and as usual we don't talk about women. Margaret Hale included.

Simon MacGregor, who has splitted with his wife for the fifth time in two years, approaches with an almost empty glass in his hand. John invites him to join us and waves for a refill for Simon.

-"_This one is on me. I owe you one, it seems_", John says.

Simon is already a bit tipsy and grins, red nosed.

-"_I'll never say no to a free beer or a free woman_", replies Simon and laughs at his own joke, "_but lemme tell you, that favor was quite easy to do_".

My curiosity is piqued by that comment.

-"_Easy, you say?_" I intervene, "_how was that?_"

-"_Well, we knew she only bought pills once. We're not going to send someone to jail for so little_", Simon sips delicately from the top of the beer and licks the froth from his upper lip. "_We got interested because she met the profile of high class hookers, you know? Good looking, educated, single and young. We were following a few leads back then._"

Simon stuffs some chips in his mouth and washes them down with a good swig of beer.

-"_But the moment she opened the door I knew she wasn't into it._" He shakes his head knowingly and we wait for him to elaborate.

He elaborates.

-"_She was fine, but first of all she was backloaded,_" Simon's free hand squeezes an imaginary ass, "_and the girls are __frontloaded_ without exception", the hand now is at his chest level holding two invisible canteloupes. "_Not only hers weren't too big, they were real_" he says matter of fact and wrinkles his nose disapprovingly. To our faces of wonder he clarifies: "_I know it because she was wearing a bra. I could see the lines through the sweater. I bet it was one of those, you know_" he points his index to his sternum and up, "_with a front clasp_".

John is completely still and there's a barely noticeable little twitch in his left eye. I think my friend is fighting the urge to clock the inebriated detective if he goes on commenting Margaret Hale's wares. I congratulate myself on not mentioning our earlier interview. Simon continues, oblivious.

-"_The first thing women get when they get into the business, aside enhancing,_" he rises his eyebrows suggestively so there's no doubt about what kind of enhancing he's talking about, "_is jewelry, but the earrings and necklace she wore were family heirlooms. There were old pictures on the wall, of her as a child and another woman wearing them. Detective's eye",_ he adds winking. "_Besides, we cross examinated everyone involved and her name never appeared. She had nothing to do with that_"._  
_

-"_Did you find anything else about her and drugs?_" I ask, needing to incriminate her.

-"_Nope. Who knows why she did it... She did buy some drugs and she did lie to me. Little ballsy thing, eh?_" Simon chuckles like a proud father, "_but no idea. When I talked to her she looked so sad I almost offered her some weed_".

He gulps the last of his glass and effectively finishes this conversation.

-"_Hey, you know her, don't you? If she's still single, you think you can put in a good word for me?_"

* * *

_John:_

So... it was all in my mind. She was innocent, she wasn't being duplicitous or two-faced. She was only dealing with something quite difficult but nothing like I imagined. Well, she deserves an apology and maybe if things go well, I may ask her out again.

Tomorrow is Saturday and her father is returning from two weeks in Oxford with his friend. I wrote him an email telling him I had passed the exam, and he replied saying that he'd love to celebrate and it only seems fitting. I plan on going to the Mills in the morning and coming back home early in the afternoon, I'll then call them and arrange something.

Truth be told I'd love to take them both out for dinner. I'd rather be just with Margaret but her father is also dear to me, and I have the feeling this is like a new beginning.

The weather forecast promises a sunny day and some breeze from the south. A beautiful summer day, by all accounts.

* * *

_Margaret:_

Oh my, that was quite a revelation, wasn't it? I had no clue I was under investigation for prostitution and it was him who... what did he do? He certainly interfered, did he have to cash a bribe? For me? Even if he thought I was a whore? Oh God.

I am not offended. I've met quite a few sexual workers and I'm aware that some are doing it by choice, that it's often but not always a life of slavery, that it exists for a reason. But I'm also aware of the connotations, of the bad reputation, or the spiraling into drugs many find themselves into. Only few manage to make a healthy living in that profession, it's true.

I am not offended, no, what I feel is relief. Huge, expansive relief. He thought, mistakenly but with good foundations, that I was deceitful. It's time to correct the mistake and thank him for his intervention. I cannot take back my hurtful words but this might be a good time to apologize too.

Tomorrow is Saturday; my father and Mr. West will have lunch in Oxford and my father will arrive in the 4 PM train. I've missed him and I'm looking forward to seeing him again; and when he's back we can invite Mr. Thornton, John, to come for dinner.

Sounds like a great plan, and that's all there is to say about it.

* * *

Note: I guess Mr. Thornton's exam should comprise more than one test and I'm sure it would take a few weeks to have it all corrected, but this is not a novel on the education system so I'm taking this big license here: He sat for the exam one day in late June, and by now he already knows he passed.


	38. Saturday

July, 16th

_Richard:_

The past two weeks have been quite a change. It was hard to come back to Oxford, to places I had last seen when my life was so different - yet less than a year has passed. Everything spoke of Maria but at the same time everything was indifferent to her absence. It's been bittersweet.

Spending time with Adam is good, if sometimes a little hard; Adam is a good friend but our differences have never been more obvious than now. He's strong and spares no energy in self pity, which makes me feel a little inadequate for feeling so down for Maria's passing; but at the same time I wouldn't be taking Maria seriously if I weren't sad.

I mentioned this conundrum to Adam and he said that I have to learn to be happy again, that experiencing joy without my wife's presence means no disrespect to her memory. Easier said than done, I believe. The prospect of experiencing merriment is as foreign to me as would be flying.

I've already packed my suitcase and came down for breakfast. Adam has always been an early riser and that was what made us friends in the first place; we were the only ones to show up well before classes when we were still students.

It's 8 o'clock and we've finished our cups of coffee and toasts. It was a light breakfast but I feel full and heavy. Maybe have I an indigestion? I'm short of breath, as I've experienced often since February, and these palpitations are making me uncomfortable.

I really don't feel well. I look up at Adam, who's reading the paper, and try to talk, to say something, but the sounds that come out are really strange, like a bang on a broken wooden box. Adam, who's a little heard of hearing (though he'd never admit it or maybe doesn't realize), doesn't put down his damned paper and I don't try again.

My chest hurts as if an iron fist was clenching, squashing, squeezing me, relentlessly. I gape for air but it's useless, I'm drowning. I feel needles and pins in my limbs, my ears buzz and I'm dizzy. I can't keep my head up anymore; I fall face first on the table and then collapse to the right of the seat and onto the cold tiled checkered floor of Fiona West's kitchen, where my consciousness just saunters away never to return.

* * *

_Frederick:_

I suppose that in retrospect this is not so unexpected after all but I'm in shock. Adam West called from Oxford to tell me my father had a heart attack earlier this morning and died.

My father is dead. Takes a while to get used to that, doesn't it?

Adam offered his assistance and I made decisions. The funeral will be held in Oxford as soon as I can go, hopefully in a day or two; Adam will now go to Milton to tell Margaret in person and stay with her until someone else can go.

I'm flying to Oxford first and then I'll go to Milton with Margaret, to sort things out quickly and then come back to Cádiz. Dolores will go to Oxford and be back in a quick round trip - she'll be more time in transit than the funeral itself but she insisted; Olivia stays with my in-laws. My aunt Anna agreed, after some coaxing and cajoling from me, to fly from London to Milton and then take Margaret back to London with her.

There's no way we're letting Margaret stay all alone in Milton. She should stay with aunt Anna, or Edith and Ian, or come with us to Cádiz. Our father is dead, and it's going to be quite a blow for her.

* * *

_Margaret:_

The weather forecast was right: today is a very pretty summer day. I made my father's bed with freshly laundered sheets and later went into the tiny garden to cut flowers for vases throughout the house. I went groceries' shopping and bought some fish to prepare tonight or tomorrow. I also have Granny Smith apples, my father's favorites, juice and yogurt.

I eat a salad for lunch and sit to rest a little with a book in the living room before my father comes from the train station. The windows have been open for hours, there is a calm breeze that makes the white curtains bellow. The old volume in my hands is a 1940's edition of Great Expectations that belonged to my grandfather, and I'm told, was a prized possession.

I'm focused on my reading when something flutters nearby and draws my attention away from the page. It's a butterfly, a gorgeous brilliant blue butterfly (I don't think I'd seen butterflies in Milton before) that parades before me, in and out the sunlight that seeps through the leaves of the tree in the neighbors' patio. Its simple beauty is breathtaking. The butterfly perches on the edge of my book - I could touch it but I don't dare, takes the rest it needed, gets up and leaves through the window.

I stand and smile it goodbye, and walk to the window to see where it goes to. When I'm standing in front of the window I hear a car coming and killing its engine right by our house. A minute later Mr. West walks to our door, alone, and then I know it. My father is dead.

* * *

_John:_

5.00 PM, finally. I've finished everything I had to do, even made sure a restaurant I like had tables available for tonight. Mr. Hale mentioned coming back in the 4.00 PM train so he must have been home for a while now.

I get my phone and call him. His mobile phone is off so I call the land line. I'm not lying, I hope Margaret picks it up. It rings twice and someone answers.

-"_Hello?_" It's a man's voice but not Mr. Hale's.

-"_Hello_", I reply. Who's this person? "_I would like to speak to Richard or Margaret Hale, please_".

-"_Thornton, is that you?_", says the voice, "_Adam West here_". Oh, Mr. West. Why is he picking the phone?

-"_Oh, how are you doing?_" I say politely.

-"_Not well_", he replies. "_I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Richard died this morning of a heart attack in Oxford_".

This needs a moment to sink. Along with this bit of news my hopes for the weekend are sinking too, but it's too petty and selfish to admit, even to myself. I realize I'm silent and I aim to say something.

-"_I'm sorry to hear it_", I finally say. "_If there's anything I could to, just say the word._" And then I ask the question I really, really want to ask. "_How are Mr. Hale's children? How is Margaret?_"

-"_They're both in shock but that's to be expected. An aunt is coming from London to keep Margaret company until the funeral, which will take place in Oxford_". There's a silence. I don't know what to say. "_You were a good friend to Richard, if you want I can give you the time and address of the funeral._"

I hadn't thought about that. "_I'd appreciate that, Mr. West._"

-"_It's nothing. Ah, by the way, congratulations for passing your exam_".

My exam? Who cares about my exam? The consequences of this death are still to be known, but I have the feeling I've wasted a precious opportunity to atone myself. I suppose that if I had to wait for a drunk and pathetic detective to tell me what I already knew, then I had it coming, didn't I?


	39. The funeral

July, 18th

_Margaret_:

Imagine someone pulls the rug from under your feet. Imagine you didn't know there was a rug. Imagine there was nothing under the rug.

Then, what would it be like?

It's like you're free falling, your heart in your mouth, anticipating a crash against the ground that you can't possibly survive. But for now, it's just free falling.

It will take me some time, days or maybe months, to put into words how I feel now. This blow was so unexpected that I just can't take it and I detach myself from it. Like a spectator who arrives late to a show and only gets a seat behind the last line, I only hear muffled voices and see blurry lines. Food is inconsequential. I think I should cry but I can't. My brother, my aunt and Mr. West have taken care of all the necessary arrangements. I should be the helping but I'm just not here.

This is the last time I'll see my father's face, the lovely lines, the soft, long eyelashes. I mutter a goodbye and take a seat in the funeral parlor's room assigned to us. A lot of people come to pay their respects, Edith, Ian, Dolores, Dixie. Sylvia is in Japan but Mel is here; she squeezes my arm but I just nod while I utter a little nonsense.

Even if we're in Oxford, John Thornton shows up too. He sits and gazes at me like that first time in Milton when I was so irked by his manner. How judgemental I was then! His eyes, normally grey with a tinge of blue, are emerald green today. Only once did I see that particular hue in his eyes before and I wish that day had never happened. He says his condolences and I give him mine, after all he's lost a friend. I tell him I'm leaving Milton soon and he wishes me luck. I repress the urge to hug him, to burrow my face in his chest and have his arms around me like that night in that parking lot but that can't possibly be done here and now, not with my father's dead body in a box before us so I just leave out a sigh.

I don't know what else to say and apparently neither does he. He stands up and leaves, and the feelings of loss and loneliness become overwhelming.

* * *

_Bertha: _

I'm sad but I'm not devastated. Richard could not live without Maria. Simple as that.

Several acquaintances, friends and family swarm the funeral parlor. They chat quietly or walk around the room either figuring themselves in Margaret or Frederick's place, in Richard's place, or avoiding such thoughts altogether.

Frederick's arm is over Margaret's shoulders and I find comfort the fact that in spite of them being gone, they were able to create and nurture a loving family. I pause to remember the man that my friend loved and sometimes hated so much, and a lump comes to my throat and my eyes well.

I am decidedly in awe of how everyone under the age of forty here looks as if they came for a state funeral instead of a retired college professor's. Most of them, I'm sure, never met Richard. They are here for Frederick and Margaret, to support them in their bereavement. That's comforting, too.

Mr. Thornton, Richard's student, is here and he comes over to express his sympathies. Frederick receives him warmly and we chat quietly. I notice he's genuinely grieved for Richard's death, and my heart goes to this young friend of Richard's who made the last year of his and Maria's lives so much better.

This is, I believe, the second time we meet and the first we speak, and I study him discreetly. He is physically imposing and carries himself with authority and I'm sure he can be truly intimidating with little or no effort. He is not the only one here being young and athletic, but his grief and his unaffected manner - his speech straightforward and with a slight Northern accent, set him apart from the others.

The longer we talk, and we don't talk long, the more I notice female eyes darting furtive glances our way, attention to which Mr. Thornton seems unwaveringly oblivious. It's when his eyes find Margaret that I detect a sparkle that wasn't there before, and I think his features soften - almost imperceptibly. It then strikes me that Mr. Thornton, powerful and intimidating as he might be, is also a little shy around women.

Of course this might be just my imagination but the thought brings a smile to my face I disguise as gratitude. His restraint might be due not to shyness but related to things I ignore... Maria mentioned once that Margaret never took him seriously, being downright rude to him sometimes, but to this Mr. Thornton is philosophical or maybe just resigned.

He approaches her and waits for her to look up to sit by her side. They talk quietly for about five minutes, after which he stands up, says goodbye to Mr. West, Frederick and I, and leaves.

Margaret now sits with Henry, her old boyfriend. Edith says they might get back together and I hope that is right. Having someone will do Margaret good.

* * *

_Frederick:_

I am making sure Edith and Dolores are comfortable and have enough to drink when I hear Mr. West clearing his throat. I look up to meet his eyes and he points, with his head, to the newcomer.

I'm glad to find that Mr. Thornton came because I really like that man. It's a pity we should meet in such a sad situation... you can't pick them all, can you? I am pleasantly surprised to find he seems truly sad for my father, even more so than I am, it seems.

He offers his assistance with anything we might need in Milton and I save his number in my phone just in case. He then apologizes for having to return to work so soon but I guess he must have business to attend, shakes hands and leaves.

Dolores glances me curiously after Mr. Thornton left but I'm called by someone else, and when I talk to her again I've forgotten about it.


	40. Where the roads take me

July, 20th

_Frederick:_

I came to Milton with Margaret and aunt Anna. My father's papers were in order and I have no troubles finding all the documents worth keeping. Most of my parents' furniture is not of great value, except for my father's desk and a couple of chairs I'll have sent to Spain. My sister wants to keep her little desk and only a few other items.

I go through my father's clothes and select two ties, a scarf, a pair of gloves and a hat; the rest is in good condition but I wouldn't wear anything of it. Either not my style or not my size. Margaret keeps the necktie my father wore to his wedding and a scarf, which she puts in a box with a piece my mother's wedding dress and a pair of white gloves. The rest is going to charity or offered to someone Margaret knows, a friend's father I think.

We split the jewelry; I keep my father's gold watch and my mother's gold bracelet and necklace. My sister keeps the wedding rings, my mother's dressing watch and the pearls. I give Margaret the box, which is very pretty, and ask for a glass jewelry box I know Dolores likes. My sister agrees.

We work in silence. There are a few boxes containing my mother's papers - Margaret has organized them, there are some photo albums and little mementos, the footprints of almost five decades of married life. My sister wants to take them with her to London and I don't see why not.

We're still undecided on what to do with this house, except that we'll empty it and send the furniture and most stuff to auction. Dixie has offered to supervise that and we've accepted.

* * *

_Margaret:_

I'm not used to people making decisions for me, but really, what could I say now? My brother wants me to leave Milton and it's quite reasonable. What would I stay here for? I don't have a job, I don't feel fit to start classes next month. I have Bessy, that's right, but she has a lot on her plate and I don't want to impose.

Mr. Thornton... John... things could have been so different, would be so different now if I had apologized instead of just seeing myself debased in his eyes. He was my father's friend, and with my father gone and me leaving for good it would be just for my personal gratification, but otherwise pointless, to say that I'm sorry.

If I hadn't allowed myself to be straitjacketed and blinded by my private school girl notions, stupid, useless notions unless I had been looking for someone like Ian or Henry, I would have opened my eyes and seen him earlier. His qualities weren't hidden but obvious to everyone, my parents included. But no. I had to say no and push him away.

Virtue is its own reward. Pretty much the same could be said for vice.

* * *

July, 25th_  
_

_Edith_:

Margaret came to live with my mother. I'm sure she'll be so happy when my little boy is born, and I'm not saying this aloud, but finally out of that dreary Milton place.

We're having my old room redecorated just for her. She's not truly attached to material belongings but I'm sure she'll love all the knick knacks I got for her. It's like the old times, when we were so close. I suppose she'll have a hard time at first and she'll need some time, but then will get over it - she's really strong, stronger than me for sure!

* * *

Notes: I'm being very disgusting towards former students of private boarding schools. Some might be snobbish people but I'm sure many are perfectly reasonable people. The lengths one must go to adapt the past to the present!


	41. A valuable friend

August, 1st

_John:_

Monday, crappy Monday. Summer seems to be gone already - the skies are gray and the breeze is a bit too cool for the first day of August. I park my car in my usual spot and get out, the old checklist of movements and clicks of every morning of my life. I head for the main door to Marlborough Mills Repair Shop's offices of when I hear footsteps and a female voice calling me.

-"_Mr. Thornton! Excuse me, Mr. Thornton!_"

I turn around and see Bessy Higgins coming my way. She looks as if she has caught a cold, her nose and mouth are red and a bit swollen, the eyes puffy and bloodshot.

-"_Mrs. Higgins_" I say waiting for her to reach me. "_I thought I had already hired you_".

* * *

_Bessy:_

Wait. Was that a joke? Just in case it wasn't I don't reply.

-"_I have a delivery for you, if you wait just a second I can hand it to you right now_".

-"_Give it to my secretary_", he orders and turns to walk.

-"_It's from Margaret Hale_" I say and he stops completely. "_It doesn't have your name on it so I thought you'd rather have it handed straight. But I can put it with the rest of your mail if you wish so"_.

He looks back at me frowning. Not as in angry frowning but mostly thoughtful frowning. Mr. Thornton frowns a lot and I'm just learning to tell the different moods.

-"_I'll wait for you_", he says. "_Come on, hurry up!_"

I rush to my bike for the little parcel wrapped in brown paper Margaret gave me along many things for my father and me. I have no idea what it may contain; it's about the size of a mug and it's heavy. I give it to him and he takes it in his hands, and makes no comment but just a quiet "_thank you_".

It's all so sad that I feel my tears coming down again. I blow my nose noisily to disguise that obvious fact. Mr. Thornton doesn't notice, fortunately.

* * *

_John:_

Bessy Higgins is lucky to be a woman because she can cry.

Once in my office I tear open the parcel; it's an inkwell, the one that was stuck in Mr. Hale's drawer that faraway day only a few months ago. There's also a handwritten note, and I let my finger slide over the words trying to recreate the touch of the hand that wrote them.

'Dear Sir,

My father planned on giving you this inkwell as a present once you passed your exam. I am now fulfilling his wish in the hope that you'll remember him as the valuable friend he was.

Yours sincerely, MARGARET HALE.'

I wish I could cry too.


	42. Going on

August, 30th

_Margaret,_

The first days I spent with my aunt were of frenetic energy. I unpacked, settled, ordered, made decisions. I wouldn't sit still. This, that, over here, over there, right now!

But then it soon worn off and I felt depleted, exhausted, barely able to do anything but breathe. I fell ill with flu like symptoms and my aunt sent me to bed with a sleeping pill. I slept, slept, woke to eat a sandwich and a glass of juice, turned around in bed, and kept sleeping. My aunt's maid, a lovely lady in her forties named Mabel, coaxed me into getting a bath by doing the wisest thing: she filled the bathtub with hot water herself because she knew I wouldn't go if I had to stood waiting.

My aunt would hate me if she knew that I prefer Mabel's company, silent and respectful, to hers. I know my aunt means well but I have a hard time keeping up with her chattering. Sometimes I ask Mabel questions about herself, mostly to hear her talk - she's from the Liverpool area and sometimes her original accent slips into her speech. Scouse is quite different from the broad Manc both Bessy and Nicholas normally use, and echoes of which I detected creeping into John's voice when he was about to dive for the kill in an argument, but I've learned to love Northern accents and it makes me feel more at home.

After the flu subsided I caught an urinary infection that wouldn't leave, then I had cankers and various sores in my gums, tongue and lips, then ear pain for the first time in my life, foot fungus in my feet and hands, and on top of that, shingles. The doctor shook his head when he saw me. He said those ailments could be treated with pills, lotions and ointments but I wasn't going anywhere without some extra help.

He looked me in the eye and said that my body was sending messages I shouldn't ignore, and that I had to ask myself seriously what kind of therapy or therapies I could try. "_There are many trends in psychology"_, he said, "_but you strike me as a strong person who will make herself responsible for her choices; maybe you wish to try also with yoga and meditation, maybe you find an outlet running, writing or photography. Think about it."_

_"Everyone's lives go through hard times"_, he said at the end of the appointment, "_and you're taking a big deal at once._" He drilled into my eyes from over his half moon glasses, "_Just remember it is alright to feel down for a while and so it is to ask for help, will you?"_

He sounds like a completely reasonable person even if his message is quite gloomy. I'm truly wrecked and not getting better anytime soon.

* * *

September, 10th

_John:_

One would believe that with all the work at the Mills I don't have much spare time yet when I leave work idle time stretches ominously before me. There's nothing really worth doing except resting for more work tomorrow, or just burning it out at the gym or from the bleachers. It's so good to be able to yell and swear, and be openly angry and frustrated

Every game I play these days include catching a ball with my hands. I'm even playing goalkeeper in football, a position I had never tried before, because I need, I really NEED to catch and grasp a fast moving object in my proximity.

I think it's because I can't believe how easily Margaret slipped from my grasp, how I let her get away just like that. I find myself often staring at my hands, palms up, closing them in tight fists and opening them again. They seem strong and they're skilled at many things, but the one thing I wanted most just leaked through like water.

* * *

Note: I am absolutely incapable of recreating Manchester's dialects (or any place's) but I wanted to make it clear that the people of Milton have their own speech and Margaret likes it.


	43. Cynicism

October, 11th

_John:_

Fanny wanted to have her wedding gown made by a particular dressmaker in Glasgow, and she had it. She wanted to spend the day before the ceremony at the Clarendon and to have hairdressers (she calls them stylists) at her disposal, and she had them. She wanted to arrive in a limo, and here we are. She wanted me to walk up the aisle with her, and I yielded.

We're almost at the church's door. My sister's phone beeps: someone informs her all guests have taken their seats and she can make her grand entrance. The car stops; there's even a red carpet, and I climb down from my seat behind the driver and help my sister get out the car. It crosses my mind that I may have to yank her out because this enormous dress may be stuck (enormous yet it manages to show a sizeable amount of skin), but she manages to get off mostly gracefully and mostly on her own.

"_Not as gracefully as Margaret would_", a treacherous voice in my head pipes in.

"_Probably not_", I agree.

Fanny takes a moment to arrange herself: she turns off her phone and hands it to me, and takes a deep breath and exhales. My sister is a bag of nerves. I squeeze her shoulder and smile to her reassuringly; the last thing I want is drama, not everything turning out to her standards or worse, my sister changing her mind and all this money just flushed down the toilet. To my horror, there are tears in her eyes.

-"_Fanny, are you alright?_" Oh, no, please, no no no no.

She smiles weakly.

-"_Yes, John, I'm alright. It's just that I would have loved dad to be with me today. I miss him so much_".

Her face scrunches and I'm at a loss of what to do or say. Should I say he's watching her from Heaven? That she'll ruin her make up? Hold her, even if I can't get too near this tent she's wearing for a skirt? Not a good idea, I may step on it.

I play it safe holding her hand and not saying anything. Mentally I check for any extra handkerchief I may have with me.

-"_You've been an excellent brother, John_", she looks up at me, more composed now. "_I love you and I hope you know it_", Fanny says as she slaps a smile on her face.

She extends her arm to hook it through mine and we climb the steps to the church main door.

-"_You look dashing in morning coat, brother_" she says winking and I smile back, although I'm sure these must be lines she learned from daytime television. "_Come on,_" she commands. "_Let's go!_"

We enter and walk all thirty meters to the altar, where the bridegroom and best man wait, shake hands with him and then I take my seat in the front pew next to my mother.

I don't know what was said in the ceremony but judging by people's faces (my sister's in particular), everything went smoothly. My mind is admittedly elsewhere; with new machinery at a record low prices demand for repair is also hitting a low, and this modern and cheaper machinery also involves new technology to become acquainted with, all of which requires an investment of capital I can't get into right now. I make a few mental notes about points I'd like to discuss at the next board meeting, list a few reports by similar companies I should get my hands on, and still have reflexes enough to stand at the right moment and take my mother's arm when the ceremony is over and we move on to the reception's venue.

There's champagne but fortunately there's also beer and I take my second (or is this the third?) glass and hope for an quick escape. There's no such luck in a place like one's sister's wedding, so I work on the periphery talking to guests who seem even more bored than I am, seeing that everyone is served and comfortable, and attempting to feed myself from the passing trays.

I sit for a moment on a stool at the bar facing the dance floor where the guests move to the beat of the music. I don't think I'll ever get married again and even if as a general rule I don't enjoy wedding receptions the thought makes me feel... old. I am thirty-five, probably twenty years younger than the bridegroom here but I feel I already got out the game for good.

Fanny is talking to her now husband and looks happy, and I experience a flash of guilt for thinking earlier that she might have just repeated words from trash television instead of expressing genuine feelings. It's the same kind of guilt I felt months ago (and still do when I revisit the moment in my head), when I walked out of Margaret at the Black Dog just because I thought she was being duplicitous.

When did I become so cynical?

That afternoon in January Margaret told me she didn't want to see any more of me. She had no idea of how right she was.

* * *

_Daniel:_

Fanny Thornton's wedding will surely make a splash in the noteworthy social pages of Milton's weekend press. Ah, little Fanny married... time flies, doesn't it?

The bride's mother approaches me and I stifle the urge to run. No sir. I stay firmly in place and look at Mrs. Hannah Thornton straight in the face, smiling broadly for good measure. I've been long certain that this woman's vocational test results would be "high security prison guard" or something of the like. Anyone would be a reckless idiot to misbehave in her presence.

-"_Hello Daniel_", she says in her trademark gravelly voice. "_How are you?_"

-"_I'm fine, Mrs. Thornton._" I say a tad too quickly. "_Thanks for asking. How does it feel to have the little one married?_" I appeal to her soft feminine mother's heart.

Said heart scoffs at me in the form of a raised eyebrow.

-_"At her age I had been married for more than five years and had a son who could walk and talk"_, she turns her eyes to the bride's dress and I think she might comment on it but she doesn't. _"But to each their own, I suppose"_.

I give small talk a try going about my brother's upcoming nuptials but she doesn't seem to pay much attention.

-"_Daniel_", she interrupts me, "_my apologies for interrupting you, but happy as I am for your family I am not exactly interested in wedding fanfare. I'd like to ask you one question, if you don't mind_", and her penetrant gaze pushes me back to the day when John and I broke a mirror and she gave us both a flogging I'll never forget. If she wants to have my credit card's pin or e-mail's password, they're all hers. I nod and soundlessly agree.

-"_Did anything happen to John?_", she looks across the room to where my friend sits on a bar stool, looking bored out of his mind. "_Lately he seems a little downcast_", she turns her interrogator's eyes to me. Oh, she would have made such a good addition to the Metropolitan Police, why did she miss her call? "_Do you, by chance, know anything about it?_"

Ah, do I? Yes I do. But, should I speak up? She looks at me, waiting for an answer. She will know if I lie.

-"_Yes, I do know something about it_", I say slowly and struggling to make both my friend and his mother happy and not die in the process. "_He met someone he liked and was disappointed. That's all, I think_". I pray Mrs. Thornton doesn't ask anything else.

-"_Thank you, Daniel_", she says with a smile and pats my shoulder softly "_I won't flog you again, you know?_"

I try to laugh nonchalantly but it comes out a little nervous. John spotted us and as if knowing what this conversation is about walks purposely towards us.

-"_Mother, I'm told we're requested for some pictures_", he says.

It's my impression that both mother and son, whose mutual resemblance is striking once you get to know them, grimace at the same time and regroup, simultaneously, in the exact non committal smiles.

* * *

Note: Daniel Donaldson is based on The Big Bang Theory's Howard Wolowicz and this chapter is where he resembles the most.


	44. Let the children play

October, 25th

_Bessy:_

Phil has been never more focused than now. He still doesn't enjoy contact sports but he's surprised everyone at swimming. Being on the smaller side he's not exactly dominant of course, but he has focus. Gumption. He doesn't give up. I didn't know this about my son.

He's also drawing like possessed. One volunteer staff at the daycare is an art student, and she's teaching Phil technique. She leaves out creativity and that at first drove Phil mad. "_I want to draw like Picasso!_", he would yell with his little fist up. "_I want to paint like Van Gogh!_". But this girl knows what she's doing; she's giving him the tools for him to go his own way.

For his ninth birthday Margaret sent him a big and heavy box of art supplies he doesn't allow anyone touch. I was curious at first and he showed me the contents, on condition that I kept my hands to myself.

I laughed though I see his point. It'd be a shame to find his pencils used for scrabbling notes, wouldn't it?

* * *

_Frederick:_

Olivia's fourth month finds her strong and beautiful. Her amazing gummy, drooly smile and big eyes light up my day. I forgive her the loss of sleep, the hair pulling, the smelly diapers. This just makes it worthwhile.

My sister still hasn't met her niece. She's been sick and not fit to travel, and of course, who wants to expose a small baby to the walking catalogue of diseases my sister's been in the past few months?

We hope we'll see her soon, though. We'll spend Christmas and New Year's eve in London, and then bring her along with us to spend a couple of weeks in Cádiz. I'm not sure what to expect and I keep my mind open for options.

Dolores says Margaret's been writing very little and is worried about her. Who wouldn't?

* * *

_Edith:_

Little Ian Shaw Lennox, my son, turns seven weeks old today. He's so cute and healthy! I'm fortunate to have a good nanny, and since I'm not breastfeeding my body is going back to what it used to be. Not one stretch mark! Wonderful!

Along with my mother we're taking care of Margaret, although I don't let her held Ian. She had fungi in her hands, by God's sake. But she takes it well. We're going on a shopping trip to Paris and Milan; it's the best mother and daughter activity we have, and we'll buy things for my cousin too.

She's truly sad and it squeezes my heart to think there's little I know I can do. I try to distract her but she only smiles at me patiently and sadly, and I feel like a dumb. But I persist.

* * *

_Sylvia:_

I know I shouldn't call Margaret my daughter and still, in moments like these, I can hardly think of her in other terms. She's down in the dumps, struggling through a very dark moment of her life. I wish she had a partner (a boyfriend, a husband) she could confide on, someone who could... I don't know. Make her happy. Let the light in, reassure that it gets better. That pain like this one will shape the person she'll be from now on but there will be happiness too.

I know it's hard to believe it when you're in her shoes, I know what it is like to lose someone you feel is a part of you. But I also know what it is like to meet the one who gives sense to it all, the one who makes you love life again, like sunshine spreading over your fields.

I keep my hopes for myself. Margaret is barely getting in touch with us and I respect that. She knows she can come by and we'll ask no questions; there's an open invitation for lunch she still hasn't replied.

I just hope it happens soon.


	45. Rekindling

November, 16th

_Margaret:_

I allowed myself four months of reclusive mourning. Today marks four months since my father died and today is the first day I get actively back into things.

This morning I opened my calendar and set appointments with everyone I've been avoiding. Sylvia. Henry. A message for Dolores and a call to Bessy. I'm reasonably healthy so Edith and Ian too will hear from me. Old friends from school. Dipped my toe in the job market by reading listings.

I'll start using the clothes my aunt brought me from her shopping trip. Aunt Anna is the best shopper there could be, she can buy just anything for anyone and it's always going to be perfect in size, cut, color and style. My new wardrobe looks just like the previous one if only a little higher end. I am certain she had to fight my cousin for this; the only sequined items are a pair of slippers and a shawl.

Today is Wednesday. This afternoon I'm going to a salon to get my hair cut. I used to love my jaw length bob but it grew and I still like it, so it's not going to be a radical change. Maybe I'll get a manicure too but I'll draw the line before make up and eyebrows plucking.

Next Friday I'm meeting Henry at the Lennoxes, and on Sunday I'm having lunch with Mel and Sylvia. I know this rush of energy may stay with me only the rest of the morning but I'll ride it while it last.

* * *

November, 18th

Tonight I met and spoke to Henry for the first time since he proposed marriage and I broke off with him entirely. He came to my father's funeral but it doesn't count, not to me at last.

I admit I've missed him and his caustic wit. Back before we started dating we would discuss films and books; it always seemed that we liked the same things and I truly enjoyed talking to him. This Henry is the same I knew before we dated.

Relentlessly polite and funny, it's hard to know what's going on exactly on behind the mask. I don't consider Henry to be an hypocrite, that's not a good word, he's... reserved. Whatever the matter he rather keeps it to himself. I never saw him openly frustrated or out of his mind, and not because I don't believe him to experience those feelings but because he keeps himself on a short leash.

I confess I really enjoy being with this Henry. He doesn't mention dating again, he seems honestly interested in me and I respect his privacy. I know there are things simmering beneath the quiet surface of his nonchalance but I consider him my friend even if he doesn't want to share. That's alright. Everyone are different and I don't mind that.

In a way it's like picking up where we left off, or better yet, some good time before then. From now on I'll progressively let my defenses down around Henry because I'm really at ease with him. We'll go to the cinema, to exhibits (he's my only acquaintance to have known about Sylvia independently), he'll recommend a yoga instructor, and from time to time, for lunch.

I don't believe he is weighing his time, trying to win me back. Our relationship wasn't fit for marriage then... was it because we were younger and immature? I don't know.


	46. Sunday lunch in family

November, 20th

_John:_

My mother invited Fanny, Robert and I for lunch at her home this Sunday. I arrive early and help set the table and take the roast from the oven: the baking dish is quite heavy and I know my mother's back is not what it used to be, even if I'm yet to hear one complaint.

We sit around the table, our roles the same as always. I carve the meat, my mother serves the dishes, my sister fills the glasses. Robert simply waits for everyone to be ready to start eating.

The meal goes by pleasantly. My sister chats happily about her new house and scolds her husband when he tries to shift the subject into finances, a topic I've always been surprised that it bothers her to no end. But it does. Our mother and I were never exactly talkative and neither is my new brother-in-law, but it doesn't really matter. That's how we are.

We eat dessert and then clear the table exactly in the same order we've always have. I carry the heaviest items (today they're the baking dish and the half filled bottles), my sister carries the most fragile ones, my mother takes care of the dirty dishes. Once in the kitchen we keep the routine going: my sister loads the glasses and cutlery in the dishwasher; I scrape the food from the dishes and load them in the dishwasher; my mother transfers the remaining food into smaller containers, puts them in the fridge and fills the baking dish with hot sudsy water.

Back in the living room we chat a little more over coffee. Fanny plans on opening her own PR firm and I listen attentively to see if I can finally find out exactly what my sister does, to no avail I may add. The only clear conclusion I get is that she expect her husband to fund her and not me. Robert seems content and not truly worried about Fanny's venture not working out well.

At 2.30 PM they leave and my mother asks me if I can take a look at her vacuum cleaner, which from her description of the problem must have a broken fan. I agree and we go upstairs, to the closet where she keeps the cleaning appliances. I sit on the floor and inspect the thing while my mother goes fetch an old set of screwdrivers that belonged to my father.

I work in silence, my mother next to me, watching. "_Do you think I'll have to buy a new one?_", she asks after a while. I still haven't found the issue so I shrug.

-"_Glen and Martha sent me an invitation to their son's wedding_", she says after more silent minutes. "_But I don't really feel like going_". My mother is a little self conscious in social meetings and avoids them as much as possible. Marlborough Mills annual party is quite a deal for her.

-"_You don't have to_", I reply reaching for a smaller screwdriver. "_Maybe just show up at church and then leave. I'll go anyway, so it's not like we're snubbing them_".

"_Aha, so here's the culprit!_" I think when I find a little piece of metal stuck in the fan. I remove it, screw the cover close and switch on the vacuum cleaner. It works.

My mother looks pensive.

-"_I saw Daniel at Fanny's wedding. Why do you think he's not married?_", she wonders aloud. "_Do you think he, um, steps on the flower beds?_"

Where does my mother take these expressions from? I frown up at her.

-"_If what you're saying is that he's gay_", I say standing up, "_I might be wrong, but I don't think so._"

-"_Oh_", she says. "_Well, he's always been a little special, a little immature_".

I have to agree with that. "_Mostly I'd say he's shy._" That's also true and shy rates better than immature in my mother's scale. "_And too intelligent for his own sake_", I add tapping my temple.

-"_I asked him about you_" Oh well. Hannah Thornton is no bush beater. I look at her again, frowning, but she's not put off... of course, she's my mother. "_He said you met someone you liked and that you were disappointed_".

-"_Why didn't you ask me directly?_" I try to defuse the subject. "_And why did you ask him in the first place?_"

-"_You've been sad but I didn't think you'd tell me_", she replies, "_and that might be still true, but if you don't terribly mind..._" she doesn't leave the question unasked: "_What happened?_"

That's a good question I haven't asked myself. I scowl but my mother is unimpressed; she takes that for a no, that I don't want to talk about it, turns around and leaves the room, down the stairs and into the kitchen.

What happened, really?

I don't have to tell my mother but somehow I believe that doing so would bring some order, some sense, even some peace to my mind.

-"_Well, it was quite simple_" I say walking into the kitchen and startling her, "_there was this girl, I liked her, she didn't like me back, end of the story_".

My mother nods and keeps putting away the lunch service. "_If you say so_", I think she mutters.

I stand there brooding, arms crossed, my head almost touching the kitchen's lamp. I feel like a thirty-five year old, 1.95 tall, sulking child.

-"_Do I know her?_", she asks.

-"_No_".

-"_Was it long ago?_", my mother seems satisfied with my replies. It's an old trick of hers to lure people into telling her more.

I let out a breath and give in.

-"_A few months. I met her about a year ago and thought she was pretty and..._" pretty doesn't do Margaret any justice, "_pungent. With flavor. Intelligent and had guts. I never felt she had any interest in me and nothing would have happened if it wasn't for an incident in late January_". I sit on one of the kitchen stools; being so tall I normally find high seats more comfortable than chairs. My mother is still busy putting away the cutlery and doesn't look at me. Better this way, I think.

-"_One night I went to play basketball with Daniel, and when I was leaving two people tried to attack me in the parking lot._" This draws my mother's attention. "_I guess they wanted to take my wallet or my car. Well, she appeared out of nowhere and she thwarted the whole thing, she intercepted a hit that would have crippled me at best. Everything happened in the blink of an eye. The tramps fled the scene at once and I found myself with her bleeding and almost unconscious_". The rush of fear, impossible, unbearable fear that ran through my body still fills my stomach with lead. "_Maybe it was the adrenaline but it was then that I realized how important she was to me. It was like everything fell into place_".

My mother pours a cup of tea for herself and offers me another one. I take it.

-"_I thought it over and went to her home the following day. I thanked her for interfering and asked her out, to which she said no_", I look right into my mother's green eyes. "_Quite emphatically_".

My mother raises her eyebrows for a moment and then frowns.

-"_And then?_", somehow she knows there's more to it. Actually the worst of it.

-"_Her mother was very ill and died shortly after. And right after the burial I learned that she was involved in a police investigation for links with drug and prostitution rings. I, uh_", how does one say this?, "_I knew a friend of Daniel's was the detective assigned to the case and I politely requested him to..._" I shake my head, "_to leave her alone. The case was huge and there were many suspects, and she was marginally involved. Not a prime suspect or anything, but still somehow entangled_".

-"_The Mickey Mouse mafia?_" she asks. I guess she read about it on the newspapers, it received ample coverage.

-"_Right_", I reply.

-"_They also questioned me_", and to my look of disbelief she elaborates. "_Maureen's son - Maureen is my hairdresser, he was found guilty of distributing drugs. He also distributed shampoo, so when they followed him to a delivery here they asked me. It was right, I suppose,_" she concludes.

Had I known my mother was in the list of suspects in the investigation I would have roughed up MacGregor a little harder.

-"_And...?_" now my mother is obviously prodding me.

-"_Well..._" this is where I'm not shown in my best light. "_I doubted. What if she was... ah, well, into those things? So,_" I swallow, "_I wasn't particularly nice to her in the following months_".

I peer into my cup, now empty, probably looking for answers. "_I don't know for a fact that she was or wasn't, though it's none of my business. I made up my mind to apologize,_" I look up and out the window, "_for being so rude, but I only saw her once again._"

My mother is expectant.

-"_Her father, who was my teacher for my exam, died suddenly of a heart attack. The last time I saw her was at his funeral. She left Milton a few days later and haven't heard from her since._"

-"_Why don't you call her?_" she asks matter of fact.

-"_I don't have her phone number or address. Not even her e-mail_", I pause. "_Besides, what would I say? 'Hey, sorry about your old man dying and for me thinking you were a hooker or a junkie. How is it going?_'" I say with affected cheerfulness.

My mother picks up on a previous bit of information.

-"_She was your teacher's daughter?_" her eyes gleam. "_Didn't she go to the annual party?_" my mother lets out a chuckle when I nod, and goes on. "_That gorgeous girl in blue, wasn't she? I saw you greeting her, you kissed her cheek and then you had a goofy smile on your face for hours_" she shakes her head, laughing at me. "_She made quite an impression there, I had so many people asking me about who she was that I snapped to a few._"

My mother seems thoughtful for a moment, perhaps pondering what else to say. Obviously she finds where to pounce the hardest.

-"_And you say you needed a mugging attack to figure out your feelings? Oh my, you're worse than your father! He asked me to marry him only after I had my appendix removed in emergency surgery._"

My mother laughs and I smile back but I feel crushed. She stops at once.

-_"So you say that when you approached her, her mother was dying and she herself was hurt, probably in pain, right?_" I nod back. "_And that you hadn't considered doing it before... Have you ever thought she might have been surprised rather than, let's say, ungraciously disposed?_"

-"_Yes, mother, I can imagine she was surprised,_" I rebut, "_but I thought that regardless the circumstances she would say simply yes or no_". I grab a biscuit and munch it.

-"_Did you ask her out again?"_ I wouldn't have guessed my mother would be so incisive.

-"_No, mother, I didn't_" I reply bitterly. "_To me yes means yes and no means no. Besides there's the little fact that I wasn't particularly friendly with her after that_".

-"_My darling John, here's a piece of rare unsolicited motherly advice_" she begins and I have to raise my eyes because motherly advice is quite rare indeed. "_Get over yourself. If you have any other chance to apologize, no matter how slim or what you think it will come out of it, simply do it. Just don't be an ass._"

-"_I love you too, mum_" I reply dejectedly.

-"_I know you do_", she says smiling.

I'm ready to leave now. "_Is there any other appliance you've sabotaged to ask indiscreet questions?_" I grumble before I fetch my jacket.

She glances sideways left and right. "_The telephone_", she says. "_It doesn't ring often_".

She winks and walks me to the front door, wishes me luck and shuts and locks it as soon as I step out.


	47. Just the way you are

December, 17th

_Edith:_

Anyone can see there's something going on between Margaret and Henry. Ian insists that I should leave them alone and that's exactly what I will do.

* * *

_Margaret:_

Henry invites me to a play at the West End and we enjoy it a lot. We go with Edith and Ian and then head for dinner in a restaurant.

When we're about to arrive to the restaurant Edith receives a call from the nanny telling her that little Ian has temperature, so the Lennox pair rush for their home without a second thought.

Henry and I stick with the original plan. Edith promises to let me know how my nephew is doing as soon as there are news, and at the restaurant they seat us in another area.

Henry's been very nice to me lately; he's changed during the past year, he's even more sophisticated and refined than he used to be, if that's possible. He was promoted, consequently he earns more money and he's started collecting art. He is by far the best conversation partner I have.

We discuss Sylvia's art. He remarks that Sylvia's paintings remind him of Salvador Dali's; not so much because of the subject of dreams but because of classical techniques applied to modern concepts. I hadn't thought of that, but now that he mentions it... it makes sense. I remember thinking once that Sylvia could probably forge classic paintings without much effort, although I don't have any proof that she has.

It's still early and some areas of this restaurant are quite empty. We're seated in the balcony - a closed and heated balcony, of course, and there is no one around us. We're perusing the menu; I've never been to this place before and I wonder if there's something particularly good. I feel Henry's eyes on me and I meet his from over the menu.

-"_Margaret_", he begins, "_I've been thinking..._"

I don't like how this sounds but I listen. Henry takes a deep breath and continues.

-"_I hope you know how important you are to me. You are beautiful and intelligent, and I have nothing but admiration and respect for you, and so..._"

I'm getting decidedly angry. Was he just bidding his time?

-"_Henry_", I interrupt him a little harshly. "_I told you once I believed we weren't meant for each other. We didn't have a good time being a couple, we do as friends, but not as a couple._"

-"_Margaret_", Henry's face is not his usual composed self. "_You are the only... the only woman I've ever loved. Please give me another chance_".

Henry is seriously upset. I had never seen him so... not master of himself. It's like his mask is cracked and I see loneliness and... and anger. Henry is angry and I don't understand why.

Why does he want to be my boyfriend, my husband? When we were together, sex was cold and awful and we'd always be apart for some days after being intimate. How does this make any sense? He's just said I was the only woman... but it doesn't mean... Oh my God.

Oh my God.

Henry's face is on one of his hands, the other is on the table. I think he's fighting off tears. I really care about Henry and if I don't get this chance to prove him I'm his friend, then I'm worth nothing. I take his free hand in mine and I ask softly:

-"_But have I been the only one?_"

Henry looks up and frowns.

-"_What?_"

-"_You said I was the only woman you've loved and I believe you, but have I been the only one?_"

Henry's face goes through a transformation, a much familiar array of gestures. His eyes make me think of a fox, estimating the danger and looking for the closest exit. But I'm not letting him go just like that.

-"_I don't know what you mean_", he says meekly.

-"_I think you do_", I reply.

He takes his time to talk again and tears well in his eyes again.

-"_Is it so obvious?_" he lets out in a very weak voice.

I shake my head. -"_No, Henry, it's not._"

-"_But you noticed_", he continues.

-"_I know you well_", I smile at him sweetly. I do know him so well.

-"_I could change_", he adds stubbornly. "_Just give me another chance. That's all I need_".

-"_No, you can't change_" I reply patiently. "_Henry... Henry, that's how you are. You're not the only one, you know?_"

Henry's voice sounds a little more normal, but not much.

-"_But 'I'm gay' sounds so horrible. What are people going to say?_"

-"_Who cares, Henry?_", and it's not an idle question. "_Exactly, whose opinion matters so much to you?_"

-"_My parents_", comes up immediately. "_My colleagues at the buffet_", he continues, "_everyone I know_".

-"_If I'm included_", I interject calmly, "_then you should know that my opinion is that you should do whatever makes you happy. And you can't be truly, madly and deeply happy with a woman._"

Henry is silent for a long moment.

-"_Does that mean that I need a poodle and a black turtleneck?_" he says half joking, half serious.

-"_Don't be silly_" I chide grateful that this conversation is taking lighter tones. "_So, tell me, has there been anybody? Anyone, you know, really special to you?_" I don't want to interrogate him but let him know that I care.

Henry is so private and that won't change. But all my memories, of each and every moment we've shared, are changed forever.

Henry shakes his head but he's lying, he just doesn't want to tell. He looks at me as if picking up the conversation where it was before, about the play we've just seen or art or politics, but he opens up:

-"_Yes. Well, you know me... I've always fallen for people who are strong, beautiful and cultivated. Like you, Margaret. Always like you_", he shakes his head wistfully. "_Do you believe me if I say that I truly wanted to love you?_" he says, blue eyes intently focused on mine.

-"_I do, Henry, but it's not enough to start a life together. Please understand that I deserve someone who desires me._" I'm glad of this heart to heart conversation being on somewhat equal grounds. "_When we were together I used to think there was something wrong with me. That's not fair, is it?_"

There's a lump in my throat and my eyes brim with tears. Henry smiles sadly.

-"_You're right. It's not fair to you, Margaret. I'm sorry_".

-"_Don't be sorry, Henry. I'm really glad we can be friends. If you want to, of course._" I'd hate to lose him again but I'm not getting into more relationship's dead ends.

Henry reads my face correctly and lets out a careless chuckle, his first of the night.

-"_I'd be an idiot to say no, Maggie May_", he say using a nickname he sometimes used for me. "_So,_" he opens the forgotten menu and skims over the list, "_what would be both like from the 'carte'?_"

-"_Coq au vin?_" I suggest mischievously covering my face under my eyes with the menu. These are unchartered territories but I'm sure we'll fare very well together here.

Henry laughs more openly now. "_Oh Margaret Hale, I love you so_".

-"_And I love you, Henry Rowan. Just the way you are_".

The dinner goes on without further incident. We won't speak about this epiphany during the night, very seldom in the future, but it was a chasm between us that wouldn't exist anymore. Henry will come out to the rest of our acquaintances a few months later; some like Edith will be incredulous while others, like Ian and Henry's parents, will have seen it coming.

Personally, I couldn't be happier. Henry has always been very important to me and I'm glad we shut the door to that blind alley.

* * *

Note: I think the original Henry, who's siblings with Fanny's husband, was quite straight


	48. Valley of tears

December, 28th

_Sylvia:_

For a long time I drew inspiration for my art from the great losses of my life. The loss of my virginity and innocence, the traumatic end of my childhood, the placing of my baby for adoption, not being able to have any more children.

My art is essentially very depressing. I'm surprised anyone can even bear looking at it; the only solution is that it is misunderstood. No one wants to hear that a painting exorcizing the anguish of postpartum depression in complete loneliness is a pleasant addition to so and so's art room in their country home... but the business part of my practice, usually dealt by Melanie but where I dip sometimes, tells me misunderstanding comes in very handy sometimes. It pays the bills, or it could pay the bills if Melanie's impressive fortune didn't already.

For the past months, however, I've been very inspired by Margaret. Her tribulations and her mind are just a gust of fresh air into my old, worn out ideas. Her presence in my life means forgiveness, means healing. Means that my journey has been rocky and strange, but there are rewards.

I will never recover my daughter, I will never be anyone's mommy. Margaret keeps me at an arm's length and I accept that. It's alright. She gives me more than I had ever hoped for and I'm content.

This end of the year is, as usual, rainy and cold. I'm running to a last minute meeting with a very nice gallery owner who wants to put together an exhibit. At first I was reluctant but the notion of expanding from creating art to manage art sounds interesting. I'm almost at the corner and I try to stop, when I stumble and slip on a loose tile and slide, in a very awkward turning of my body, onto the street and the coming traffic.

The last thing I'll see will be the lights of a car, like cold and impassive yellow eyes on a cold December day. The last image flashing before my eyes will be Melanie Sanders' tough, sad and beautiful face.

* * *

_Margaret:_

My phone rings and I pick up at once. There's noise on the other side of the line and I have some difficulty understanding the mumbling through it. There's a silence and another voice sounds, like the phone was snatched from the first person and a second will deliver a message.

-"_Is this Margaret Hale? I'm talking to you on behalf of Melanie Sanders. Sylvia Bell has had an accident and is badly injured. If you can, please come to the University Hospital..."_

I say I will. My aunt orders a car and I arrive to the Hospital twenty minutes later. I have no troubles finding Melanie, and I have to brace myself before stepping into the room because crying is very loud.

Melanie is almost insane with grief. Sylvia's dead body is still on the bed, still warm, the skin on her forehead grazed, her right arm's and leg's bones obviously broken. It's a painful spectacle. I hold Melanie, whose moans and sobs shake me badly, and try nothing to comfort her. Her voice soon gets into a litany of memories and feelings, the violence of the shock subsiding.

I offer my help to arrange the funeral and Melanie accepts it.

Sylvia Angelica Bell, my birth mother, is buried on December 29th, Thursday. The funeral service is private and attended only by a dozen people. Melanie is composed and detached, the wildness of her sorrow tamed.

Before I leave she tells me that there's something for me in Sylvia's will, which will be read in January. I suppose Sylvia left me a painting or maybe a small memento, and think nothing of it, not even mention it at home to my aunt or Henry.


	49. Happy new year

December, 31st

_Margaret:_

I can't wait for this year to be over, done, finished. It saw so much pain and tears that it was worth for, I don't know, a decade or so._  
_

I'm at Edith's end of the year party with my aunt, brother, sister in law, niece, nephew, and a handful other people. We've eaten and we're ready for the countdown, the last few seconds of the year.

Dolores brought canned seedless, skinless grapes and we're eating one during the last twelve second of the year, and then we'll toast. Dolores insists we put some golden item on the glass "_so the new year brings you fortune_" and I put my mother's wedding ring in my champagne glass, from which, everyone knows, I'll only sip enough to wet my lips.

-"_Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, ONE!_"

My heart delivers a toast of its own:

* * *

January, 1st_  
_

_John:_

"_Happy new year, my love. Wherever you are, whomever you're with, I hope this year brings you nothing but joy and happiness. You deserve it more than anyone else._"

My sister's pregnancy is making her even more prickly and difficult than ever, and Robert is raising to the challenge. My brother in law is worth his weight in gold. My mother relishes the prospect of becoming a grandmother, but for now she just wants to go to bed.

I disguise a sigh. I hope nobody was looking when I thought of Margaret. I wish I knew she's well, but I can only hope.

Another year gone by and who knows what the next may bring. The past year was unspeakably precious to me, if only because Margaret was here in Milton, sparring with me after classes, protecting me from muggers, lying for her parents' sake, helping my employees to have better lives.

Milton has never been greyer and sadder than it's been since the day she left. I can only hope she's happy and well, my wonderful, valiant, beautiful swan.

Happy new year, my love.


	50. Turning a new leaf

January, 14th

_Frederick:_

I wonder if my parents have also experienced this feeling with Margaret - or even with myself, that she's been away from us for so long that she has turned into a wonderful woman we're yet to discover. I wonder if anyone truly knows her. I refuse to believe that my frivolous cousin Edith, of all people, is her closest relative.

My sister spent the past two weeks in Cádiz with us. Olivia adores her, Dolores shamelessly tries to convince her to stay longer or come back soon. Margaret smiles... she seems older and wiser but still beautiful, my strong sister. I don't ask her personal questions, I simply let her being around and come and go as she pleases but sometimes I think I catch a glimpse of wistfulness in her eyes.

I find it hard to believe that my sister doesn't have, let's say, suitors and admirers. Chances are that she has, and plenty, but being the opposite of vain she probably doesn't notice. She's never had Edith's manipulating intentions, would never date anyone for the purposes of being seen or just have fun. She's serious, my sister Margaret.

On Epiphany's eve we attended the traditional "Cabalgata de Reyes", the Kings' Ride, and leave Olivia and Dolores at home. While we were waiting for the candy she told me Henry is gay (though she warned me it's not yet common knowledge), and that she isn't seeing anyone. She surreptitiously wiped a tear and in an excess of physical affection between two Brits I put my arm over her shoulders; I have no idea what that tear was about and it probably doesn't matter. Even if she told me there's nothing I could do about it.

Margaret leaves today for London and the whole family jumps into the van to the airport. My wife has none of the qualms we English men have and hugs and kisses Margaret repeatedly, even lets a few tears. "Vicariously" is an adverb that comes up to my mind often when I observe Dolores relating to many of my people.

* * *

January, 15th

_Margaret:_

While I was in Spain Melanie wrote me asking if I could meet her today, Sunday, at her home, which reinforces my idea that Sylvia left me something small I could probably carry home in my pocket. A photograph or a letter, perhaps? A bracelet?

Well, I'm mistaken. I couldn't be farther from the truth, actually. Sylvia left me everything she owned.

* * *

Everything, in this case, is worth about twenty million pounds. Mostly in real estate, some shares of stock, some jewelry and some cash in the bank, about four million. I don't attempt disguise my astonishment. I lose speech for a long minute.

Melanie asks me if I'm alright and offers me a glass of cold water. I try to refuse - the money, not the water. "_Melanie, it should go to you. What's going to happen to you?_" I say genuinely concerned.

Melanie smiles condescendingly. Isn't it curious that I had barely seen her smiling before and now, that she's mourning her spouse, it seems to come up more easily? Or maybe it's just my impression.

-"_Margaret, I'm one of the ten richest people in Britain, and that's not counting Sylvia's assets",_ she shakes her head._ "I'm not destitute, you know?_"

-"_Oh, I see_", my argument loses force. "_But it feels wrong. I never... I wasn't close with Sylvia. Not as close as I could have been_" I open up to this square faced woman who knows and understands, "_I'm afraid I hurt her more than once with my coldness._"

Melanie's smile is wider now, her eyes glisten with tears that refuse to fall.

-"_Margaret, you have no idea how good you were to Sylvia_", she shakes her head while her eyes wander to my left and up, and then find mine back. "_She didn't expect anything from you but you made her very happy. She didn't want to tell you about the will for fear you'd say no..._"

Here Melanie stands and motions me to follow her, over to Sylvia's workshop.

-"_That's why she never offered you one of her pieces, because she was afraid you didn't like it and said no and broke her heart, or didn't like and took it anyways, and then broke her heart._"

Melanie's rummaging among the paintings, the orderly disorder of the workshop.

-"_I am keeping the rights as Sylvia's artistic executor_" she faces me as she utters the words, to emphasize them. "_I would fight for them, just so you know._"

-"_They're all yours_", I reassure her.

-"_Good_", she nods once. "_But you can take some paintings if you like them. Just, please, don't take anything you don't like. Please_" she pleads with her eyes and then goes back to the paintings. "_Oh, here it is_", she says pulling out one square painting of about twenty inches long. "_I wanted you to see this one_".

This painting is unlike the rest of Sylvia's style. It's very descriptive - there are two girls or young women in an open air round swimming pool in a summer day. They're wearing the same striped blue and white swimsuits and they look similar, but they're distinct persons.

-"_She painted this one right after she met you_", says Melanie now standing by my side. "_You were then about the age she was when she got pregnant_" Melanie purses her lips and frowns, I suspect that fighting more tears. "_She came from the hospital with this idea of a full circle and painted it from an old picture of hers and one of yours_".

So, one of the girls is me. I look closer and I recognize my face, still quite round at fifteen, my dark hair in the style I wore then.

-"_You looked a lot each other_" adds Melanie. "_You're taller and have darker hair and eyes, but the bone structure..._" she points vaguely over her facial features, "_is just the same._"

* * *

I didn't know that. I've never wanted to see anything of myself in Sylvia, denied any similarity. But Melanie is right, we looked like each other.

Melanie is keeping personal papers and pictures of Sylvia. I won't argue with her, but request to take a look at older pictures. We spend the afternoon going over them; there are a few of mine but Melanie wants to keep them too and I agree.

* * *

I don't know what to do with the money. I'm a millionaire now, what do millionaires do? I toss and turn in bed trying to get some rest until I give up and get up to fetch my phone and write a message to Melanie.

"_Can you please give me lessons in finances?_"

Melanie reply arrives at around 8.00 AM next morning. "_Of course, honey. Just call my secretary and set an appointment_".


	51. Lessons in finances

February, 27th

_Edith:_

My cousin is taking a crash course in finances and is very involved in managing her new fortune. She has the help of a manager and advisor, which is wise, but what frustrates me to no end is that she doesn't behave like the rich girl she is now.

What's the point of having so much money if you don't spend it?

Margaret doesn't seem to care a lot... well, she hasn't changed much, has she? But she has purchased a very pretty apartment. It's a three bedroom penthouse with half its surface as open terraces and rooftop gardens. It's really cute, I think, and thank God she let me and my aunt help with the decoration.

With our help her house is going to look like a home in no time. Fancy Margaret in a house of her own! She has this very pretty painting of two girls in blue swimsuits and we used it for a mood board for decorating her main room. It has touches of summer and water and youth... very fresh. With a state of the art kitchen, sleek modern furniture, and a few classic designs I scooped at antiques stores, it's all coming together wonderfully.

Margaret is impressed and says I should think about working in interiors decoration. I know my home and Margaret's turned out well, if I say so myself, but I'm not sure my heart is in getting a job. I'd rather have more children, to be honest.

* * *

April, 2nd

_John:_

Like a belated April Fool's Day joke, today arrives a notice from the HM Revenue and Customs stating that not only are we not eligible for tax exemptions but we're behind payments and there is a debt and interests to be collected. I call our accountant and try to make sense of that mess; this is not the first time we find ourselves in financial difficulties and I try to stay calm.

By noon my reserves of calmness are empty. Business is at an all time low, demand for repairs gets smaller every day and there are sophisticated new machines we simply don't have the technology to repair.

I try not to panic but God, what are we going to do?

Bessy Higgins stops me on my way from lunch and asks me. I don't have the heart to tell her the truth but she doesn't take any crap from me, and I sow the seeds of my previous vow of confidence in her. She comes at mid afternoon with a plan to refinance the Mills with the employees' help, which has a few faults but is quite good in essence.

Still, I don't know what we're going to get over this one. By my estimation we can run for a few months, we're lucky if we're alive by July, and then... I think I'll have to start looking at the jobs listings on the Sunday paper.

Back to square one twenty years later.

Damn.

* * *

A/N: People, my knowledge of finances is very small so this is fluff. Financial fluff... sounds sexy, doesn't it?


	52. And that's all she said

June, 24th

_Margaret:_

Henry invited me to Paris for my birthday, which is today, Sunday the twenty fourth of June. He's taking a course in tort law in Le Havre for the month of June; he sent the air tickets last week and we met here yesterday. We went to the Opera, had dinner under the stars and were tucked in bed early - quite an important detail for two early birds like us.

Things are so much smoother and easier with Henry now... much clearer, if you like. I like it crystalline. It's obvious to have a room each, to do things separately instead of being stuffed together. Breathing room is good.

It's still morning and we're taking a stroll around the old city. We had a coffee and a croissant and set out to walk around like tourists. In spite of being Sunday there are a lot of shops open and we get into a few to inspect the merchandise.

-"_How come a beautiful woman like you is still single?_", suddenly says Henry while looking at antique jewelry.

-"_Henry, that sounds like a bad pick up line_", I reply frowning.

-"_Don't be vain", _he scolds me with mock severity. "_I'm serious. What's up with you? Where are your suitors?_" he says and spies around as if paparazzi were stalking us behind the piles of old newspapers.

-"_I have millions. That's what happens_", I reply. Henry warned me when he heard about my fortune that it could make me target of unscrupulous wooers and I admit I'm a little wary. "_Truth is, Henry, I'm not all that genial. I don't socialize with that many people, not people that I could date,__ really_."

-"_But hasn't been there anyone?_" he looks up at me. "_If you think I'm prying, then I should remind you that you asked this question first_".

-"_But you didn't truly answer me!_" I laugh. "_You weasel!_"

Henry affects remorse.

-"_It's that I'm a little worried about you, Margaret_" he says fondly. "_How about that man, the one at your father's funeral?_"

-"_What man?_" I ask, even if I have a very clear idea of whom we're talking about.

Henry looks back as if I were a little dense.

Alright, I'm being a little dense.

-"_Sir Guy of Gisborne with a haircut and a business suit_", he clarifies, and then lets out a malicious chuckle. "_Do I see Margaret Hale blushing?_"

The impact of these words is that I blush even harder. Henry is having a field day with me.

-"_Fess up, naughty girl!_" he exclaims dramatically and laughs like an evil character.

I try to laugh with him but I can't. Ah... no. I can't laugh.

-"_There's nothing to confess, Henry. I'm sorrier than you about that fact, for sure_" I say while I experience the familiar sinking feeling.

-"_What happened?_", asks Henry curious and very tactfully.

I open my mouth to answer but no sound comes out. What happened between John and I? After a quick glance into my face Henry is back to the antiques and doesn't insist. He pulls up a silver ring with an ivory cameo I like and try it on. It fits and he pays for it, my twenty-fourth birthday present.

We walk some more and stop for lunch in an open air café.

-"_I don't know what happened, Henry_" I suddenly bring back the subject that's been on top of my mind for the past two hours.

-"_With what?_" he says disconcerted.

-"_With the man at my father's funeral. I'm still not sure but I just know it... it was real and intense_", and then just like that I start talking of something I've only discussed with people who are dead now; my mother, my father, Sylvia.

-"_His name is John Thornton and he was my father's favorite student. They were good friends and he was very supportive after my mother died. I always thought... at first he'd always argue with me, it was like he couldn't tolerate the notion of agreeing with me_", I lower my eyes to my new ring, "_and thought he couldn't tolerate my person, but I was wrong_".

I swallow and continue.

-"_One night before my mother died, I was leaving the gym when I saw that two people were going to attack him. I did the most stupid thing I could do, this is, I intercepted the hit myself. Why didn't I alert him, why didn't I do something more reasonable?__" _I shake my head, "_it was awful. Well, he came to my house the next day and asked me out. At first I thought he was being condescending and smug, but then I realized he was being quite sincere. I told him... I was cruel to him, I asked him who he thought he was to be so disrespectful_".

The following part is not exactly what you'd like to discuss with a lawyer friend.

-"_At the Accidents and Emergencies they gave me painkillers I shared with my mother. They were very effective but I couldn't get more just like that, so I contacted a drug dealer._" Henry doesn't say a word and his eyes don't leave my face. "_Turns out, the dealer got into jail right away and sang. He gave my name and I guess others too. A Police inspector came to my house and I denied everything, two or three days after my mother died. I didn't know it until much later but they were investigating people for drugs and prostitution charges and they thought that I was in for_" to Henry's raised eyebrows I complete the sentence "_the carnal business_".

I take a sip from my glass of sparkling water.

-"_It must be said that one of the things that irked me more about this Mr. Thornton was that everyone seemed to like him immediately. I thought he was being, I don't know, presumptuous or petulant, but thing is after I turned him down I realized there was a lot to like about him_."

-"_He's prime beef_", says Henry. "_It was quite noticeable, even from within the closet's darkness_".

I chuckle at this assessment. For some reason there's always a food comparison that fits John Thornton.

-"_Well, yes, he's..._" I flush again remembering more than one illicit eyeful from yours truly, "_yes, very good looking_". Henry shoots me a derisive glance but I don't correct. "_He's also a very good person. So, I noticed he sincerely regretted having asked me out, having even considered it_", I'm so ashamed I could cry but I blink back the tears and keep talking. "_Much later, the day before my father died actually, I found out that the only reason the Police had left me alone wasn't because of my convincing acting abilities but because of his connections. He meddled with the investigation, he... well, he did something - I don't know exactly what, and that's why I wasn't questioned again"._

_-"Wow", _says Henry._ "How very Mr. Darcy of him. I didn't know those people really existed".__  
_

_-"Yes, but you see, Lizzie Bennet wasn't into drugs, she only had a wayward sister". _I let out a sigh of defeat. "_So, I made up my mind to thank him for interfering and apologizing for my harsh words, and even planned to invite him over for dinner as soon as my father came back home._"_  
_

-"_But he never came back_", Henry finishes softly.

I bite my lips and shake my head, tears finally pouring down.

-"_No, he didn't. The last time I saw Mr. Thornton was at the funeral. What could I say then? I'm sorry I behaved like a bitch but I'm not one?"_

Henry bites and chews thoughtfully his baguette.

-"_Have you called him?_", he asks after a few moments of active munching.

-"_No. I once started writing him a message, back in October or November, but never got around to complete it. It made me cry too much. I did send him one for Christmas but it bounced back. I took it as a sign... what are my apologies worth, after all? I'm sure he took all the trouble of stepping in for my father's sake rather for me. Better turn over that leaf, you know?_"

I feel this subject is almost exhausted.

-"_You know, Henry, I try very hard not to think about him_" I say as a closure. "_Because I don't understand him, and I don't want to read into his actions and jump into conclusions. He once had feelings for me and I didn't reciprocate. The only clear thing for me is that he behaved like a gentleman and I... I didn't and I regret it."_

_-"And that's all she said", _quips Henry.

I nod. We walk around some more until we find ourselves at the door of a very picturesque bookshop named Shakespeare and Co. Henry has visited this place before and takes me in to drown my sorrows in culture or at least forget about them for a while. There are books and papers everywhere and this mess feels welcoming. There's a sign over one wall reading: "_Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise_", to which I smile up. "_Thank you_", I say to myself, "_I'll try to remember it next time_".

Henry pulls a book by Anaïs Nin, a writer I've heard about but never read, and pages through it as if knowing exactly what's he's looking for. He finds it and folds the corner of the page, tucks the book in the crook of his arm and keeps browsing.

-"_You said you tried hard not to think about Mr. Thornton_", says Henry. "_How are you doing with that?_"

-"_Terribly_", I reply not lifting my eyes from the rows of books, "_but let's not discuss it anymore, shall we?_" I get old editions of Ted Hughes' "The iron man" and "The iron woman".

Henry assents and browses some more. We pay for our books and leave for the hotel, and then the train and plane that will return us to the places we call home these days.

Not really much else to say about it.

* * *

Note: This is the first of two chapters heavily inspired by the films "Before sunrise" and "Before sunset" (Richard Linklater, with Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy). Walking around an European city while you open your heart seems like a great plan to me.

The story "New Year's Resolution" by user ChocolateIsMyDrug uses the comparison of Sir Guy of Gisborne to John Thornton because they were played by the same actor in BBC adaptations. The characters, though, have little in common.


	53. Meeting again

July, 25th

_Edith:_

It should be noted that the dinner parties given by Mrs. Ian Shaw, this is, me, have been featured and talked about by very remarkable people in very remarkable outlets. It should be noted and appreciated that I take pains to oversee to the last detail, from the floral arrangements to the food and seating placements, the music and even the scent present during the evening. It must be duly remembered that my dinner parties under the stars are not rained upon, not because I have powers over the weather but because I always have plans to back on in case the unruly London climate decides not to cooperate.

My party planning is perfect and it frustrates me beyond words when my guests do not appreciate my efforts. Twice today, not just once but twice, I had to introduce last minute changes to my perfect party honoring my cousin Frederick and his family. First, Henry stood me up. Henry Rowan, of all people! I'm so disappointed in him. And second Frederick asked me to add one more guest, as if it were so simple! But Frederick knows how to be adorable and it's hard to be mad at him for long.

He said he had met this friend absolutely by chance this morning, he crossed him on the street or something, and since my cousin is returning to Spain tomorrow and hadn't seen his friend for long he thought he might invite him.

I am not happy, oh no, I am not. But I trust this friend of Frederick behaves himself and doesn't break any glass or loses a piece of cutlery.

* * *

_John:_

This morning I was heading for a meeting at Melanie Sanders' office when I heard a voice calling me, which belonged to none but Frederick Hale. He seemed absolutely elated to see me and went as far as extending me an invitation to a dinner party at his cousin's this evening.

I am ashamed to admit that my interest in Frederick is mostly as Margaret's brother, and that being bankrupt for all practical purposes is not the best shape I've been in, but the hope, the slim chance of seeing her again trumps all my misgivings. Yes, I know she might not be there tonight, or that she might be with someone else and I might be crushed. But now I hope and I'll worry later.

At the tiny mirror of my brother in law's apartment in London I give myself a hard look and try to assess what I see. It's been a hard year since I last saw her; my work of the past two decades went all down the drain after a string of adversities too massive to deal with together.

I am not my business, but my business was all I had. It also leaked through my fingers, like water, like the things I've wanted most.

* * *

_Margaret:_

John is coming tonight, you say? How is that possible, is that really true? Sometime during the past months, in my mind he stopped being Mr. Thornton and started being John... but I have never called him so.

My brother has just announced that we'll have a last minute guest and I try to keep a flush from overwhelming me. I discreetly check my dress: it's a nice cocktail dress with an ample knee length skirt, very 1950's, very classic. It's white and has a print of large blue flowers, in a china effect very pretty. I'm suddenly glad I'm wearing wedges; normally I'd think myself too tall for them but tonight I thought they'd compliment the style. I check my posture, my hair, my nails, and I'm alert, extremely alert, to the point that I hardly know what I'm doing, just to know the moment he steps in.

And I do. My back is facing the door, I'm playing with (or mostly, chasing) Olivia around and I just know that he came into the room. My ears pick the husky tones of his voice, his soft and low voice, amidst the noise of the room but I don't want to turn around yet. I want to give myself just another moment, and then, I take a breath, I stand up and I turn from my waist first and my head last.

He's right by my side. I strive for composure even if I risk being a little icy, but I, very slightly, near my cheek to his and smile. He nears his and we air kiss.

He has changed, he has changed a lot. He looks older, careworn, but still so handsome. Some portions of his hair are salt-and-pepper, and to my surprise he's wearing a dense, but well groomed, beard.

We don't talk. Just "_how do you do_" and inconsequential, awkward conversation. I blush right now and it will stay so for the rest of the evening and probably part of tomorrow too.

* * *

_Edith:_

Well, this Mr. Thornton is not a bad addition, I admit. He's not bad looking, I suppose, and good at conversation. Fred and Dolores are enthralled with him and the evening is rolling out well.

I am in the party level kitchen, where we keep the smallest supplies and the drinks (the cooks are in the lower kitchen, better equipped for those purposes), looking for a little fork for Olivia when Ian comes up to me and holds me from behind.

-"_You look very pretty tonight, wife_", he says and the innuendo is quite difficult to miss.

-"_Thank you, husband_" I say turning, "_but a pretty lady cannot have too many pretty things_", I reply nuzzling his neck. "_Have you seen the ring Henry gave Margaret? She's such a lucky girl_."

-"_You're much luckier than she is. Want me to show you how much exactly?_" he says teasingly.

Someone clears his throat and we turn to find Mr. Thornton with an ice bucket in his hand.

-"_I, umm, there's no more ice_" he says covering his discomfiture after getting a too ample view on our domestic felicity.

-"_Oh, thank you,_" I pretend nothing happened. Ian opens the fridge and takes the ice out, I observe our new guest. Inspiration strikes.

-"_Mr. Thornton, are you married?_" I ask politely.

-"_Beg you pardon?_" he seems taken by surprise as if it were an nosy question.

-"_If you're married_" I repeat raising my hand with my wedding ring.

-"_Oh no, not married_", he replies then.

-"_Edith..._" says Ian, a just a hint of warning in his voice. I ignore him.

-"_If you agree, of course, I would like to introduce you to my friend Kate, a very pretty and intelligent lawyer_", I say proud of my matchmaking abilities.

* * *

_John:_

The husband, Mr. Lennox, shifts strategies.

-"_Eddie, dear, why don't you take more champagne for pregnant women? It seems to me there are thirsty teetotalers in the room_".

I appreciate this man's intervention but I want to be polite to my host.

-"_Ah..._", What about your cousin, Ms. Lennox? "_I live in Milton all year round and I'm afraid I'm not keen on long distance relationships_". I hope this was said tactfully enough.

Ms. Lennox nods and takes a bottle that looks like champagne but apparently isn't.

-"_Sorry about that_", says Lennox once she's out of earshot. "_My wife means well, I hope you know._"

I pull the corners of my mouth up.

* * *

_Frederick:_

-"_John, you're here_", I say after finding our friend in the kitchen with Ian. "_Come on, join us at the terrace_".

We walk toward the open skies section of my cousin's party with a glass of scotch each.

-"_So, tell me, how things have been in Milton?_" I ask him.

-"_Well, in Milton, generally speaking_", he replies, "_not bad. Personally, yes, quite badly. My business broke_" he says simply, as if talking about the weather.

Margaret, who was playing with Olivia nearby, turns her face to us in disbelief.

-"_Really?_" she says very quietly.

He looks to her smiling patiently.

-"_Yes, really_".

-"_But..._" my sister says in a thin voice, "_What happened?_"

John shrugs a little.

-"_A lot of things, all at the same time. Debts with Revenue, low demand for repairs, too much going out and too little coming in_", he concludes.

Margaret still seems in shock.

-"_Couldn't you have sold the company instead?_"

-"_I suppose I could have_", he says looking at her and then at me. "_But the offers weren't good. I mean, I could have saved myself but my employees would have been forced to resign. From the point of view of general welfare this was the best option. This way they're eligible for social security payments - unemployment or retirement"._

_-"And what about you?"_, asks Margaret, her eyes big_._

_-"No, I'm not eligible for social security",_ he says laughing. "_I'm looking for a job, actually. If my references help" _he adds with self deprecatory tone._  
_

By this time John is the center of the party. Everyone is in awe of this man hardly older than myself, who's built everything with his own hands and lost it all yet he seems so respectable and dignified. My sister looks down and picks up little Ian, who's clamoring for her attention.

-"_These things happen all the time, Miss Hale_" John says to her and I'm surprised by the formality they address each other with, "_it's not the end of the world. Besides I received a note with employees signatures stating they'd be glad to join me again... should I ever get out of the swamp I'm in, that's it. Your friend Higgins' is one of the first names on it."_

Margaret nods and walks to another area with little Ian still in arms. She seems a bit upset so I later join her.

-"_Everything alright?_", I ask her.

-"_Fred, everyone I met in Milton was related to that business. This must be a tragedy_", she shakes her head, "_and I had no idea_".

The evening is pleasant and pretty much like all the dinner parties my cousin gives. When we're ready to leave Edith thanks me for this last minute guest, and I thank her back for receiving him.

We're leaving back for Spain tomorrow afternoon and we must rest.


	54. Business to you

July, 26th

_Margaret:_

I wake up early and dive headfirst into a flurry of activity. I call Melanie and ask her if we can do anything for Marlborough Mills, if we can lend them money to rebuild, to come back to life. She says it's alright and drafts a proposal she mails me before noon, which looks good enough to me.

She sets an appointment with John for tomorrow, Friday, in a restaurant she always uses for business meals. I'm not sure whether to go or not but Melanie says I should learn the ropes of managing finances by being present in meetings like this one.

I'm really nervous. I feel like a caged tiger in my home, I walk up and down and then get down and walk on the street. It's hot and humid, people go about their own business, my turmoil just for me to deal with. The first fat drops of rain smash on the top of my head - I went out without an umbrella so I get into the first open business. Turns out it's a bookstore and I browse lazily while the rain subsides.

I find a book with quotes by famous thinkers, the kind of book I believe to be like a soap of culture - to slather on you and impress your acquaintances but it really doesn't stay with you long. I page through it and this quote really jumps up. It's by Goethe and reads: "_If I love you, what business it is to you?_"

I laugh mutely. "_Quite a good business, actually. Just please, take it_" I think to myself. I'm truly afraid that he won't take the loan because it comes from me. Let's hope that doesn't happen.

This bookshop seems to be for tourists but there are a few interesting things for locals too. There's a photographic history of England by areas and I look for the North volume. There it is. I pull it from the shelf and look for the Lancashire cotton mills history and peruse the pictures. This one looks like... is it...? Mmmh...

* * *

July, 27th_  
_

_John:_

Mrs. Sanders called yesterday and said she had found an investor interested in bringing the Mills back from the dead. We'd meet in this restaurant at 11.30 and I arrive early, as usual, and sit in a table set for three people. I wait. 11.30 come and go and nobody shows up. I pull out my phone and turn it on discreetly; I don't want to bother other customers with it. There's no message from her.

It's 12.15 and I'm debating whether to stay and order for one, or more accordingly to my finances these days, simply leave. Mrs. Sanders' phone is off or in a no coverage area. I suppose I can stay a little longer in London, Watson's apartment is truly convenient in that regard but I wish I didn't have to.

I allow myself to weigh in new information. Someone named Henry gave Margaret a pretty ring. Why do men give rings to young and beautiful ladies? There's the odd situation, of course, in most cases I'd guess it's engagement. Talk about being a loser.

Margaret Hale appears often in my dreams. She is always beyond my reach: she's riding a bus in the opposite direction, in a garden two storeys below, talking to someone else, not seeing me. Or she's in disguise: I am sharing some hard words with Daniel, my mother or any of my employee, and suddenly realize it's Margaret who I'm talking to. She is at her father's funeral, the last time I saw her, and I can't believe how cruel I was. My worst nightmare is her marrying that man who held her hands at the funeral, that... that elegant, worldly man who's not me. And only once or twice my dream was perfect, she came laughing, dancing and spreading her arms, warm and lovely and close.

I always wake up from those dreams in a mess, because although they leave me in a foul mood for a good part of the day I simply don't want them to go away. As if summoned by my hopes and dreams (unfortunately the bad ones) I met her two days ago. She has changed; I thought she looked older, but still so beautiful to me that I spent every second of the party drinking her in, memorizing her features, her voice, the fascinating way she moves herself, particularly her hands. While we talked, I think I only blinked once.

Maybe my dreams are playing tricks with me because a woman who looks just like Margaret has just entered the restaurant and is talking to the head waiter. He nods and walks ceremoniously towards me, hiding her from my view, but then he arrives to my table and it's her.

Margaret Hale is here and not Melanie Sanders. I get up from my chair to greet her, too stunned to actually be able to articulate anything. She smiles nervously and sits down, opens her purse and pulls a little folder out.

-"_I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Thornton. Melanie had an appointment out of town this morning and her car had a puncture; nothing serious, fortunately, but she's not going to come. She must be somewhere else this afternoon - she tried to contact you but said your phone was off"._ I don't think I had seen her nervous before and I like it, although I'd rather she was calm.

-"_Since we're here_", she continues, "_I would say we had lunch and I introduce you to our idea. Do you agree?"_

_-"Of course"_, I find my voice to state something beyond obvious while I wonder about "our idea".

We take a moment to order and I strive to select an item from the menu that won't get stuck to my teeth (this pesto thing is excluded) or may make a mess on my shirt (so pasta is out too). Margaret says the chicken salad is good and asks for sparkling water; the day is hot and I prefer a beer, and after a little consideration I ask for a chicken salad too. I imagine I'll later have to eat something else but try not to think about it right now.

The food comes surprisingly quick and I admit it's more generous than I had thought.

-"_I'm not sure you're aware that recently I inherited a large sum of money_", she blushes as she pours her water but holds herself together, and her voice gains certainty and strength, "_mostly in investments and real estate, and after hearing of your difficulties and discussing to Melanie about possible avenues, I would like to offer you a loan"._

-"_A loan?_", I repeat. "_You have no idea how much I've tried to get a loan from banks but was refused time and again"_, I add mentally.

-"_Yes, a loan_", she smiles shyly, "_of three and a half millions_".

-"_Euro?_" it's all I manage.

-"_Pounds_" she says. "_I hope it's enough for starting. I'm also_" she rushes but then pauses and continues more slowly, "_the owner of the premises of Marlborough Mills so the rent is part of the loan too. There are many details in the draft you must agree to, and you may want to go through them with an attorney and maybe make some comments, but essentially that's the proposal_". She finishes and her eyes haven't left mine. Straight, open, unwavering.

I'm not sure what to say. I take the draft she offers me and skim over it; everything looks in order but I must read it closely before I sign it.

-"_Why?_" It's not polite to ask such question but it springs, unbidden, to my lips.

Margaret ponders a reply.

-"_Do you remember a conversation we had long ago, one day after a class?_" she asks and I think I know which one she refers to. The one I thought myself to have won but I haven't been so sure lately.

-"_When you accused me of being an accomplice to a system that denies opportunities to those who need them more?_", I repeat her earlier words.

She smiles and looks down to her plate, a little embarrassed.

-"_I don't remember using those exact words but you're probably right_", she looks up and flushes again. "_Well, I've been thinking... I think you raised some very good points then... of being responsible and doing what is in our power, of the importance of local business and local economy_." She looks sideways and I force myself not to stare at the velvety harmony of lines of her jaw, neck and collarbone. "_Everyone I met in Milton was related to Marlborough Mills, everyone. I cannot be able to help you and not do it". _She shakes her head thoughtfully.

-"_As I mentioned at your cousin's dinner_", we're falling back into our old patterns of conversation, but hopefully older and wiser, "_it's not the end of the world. Businesses going down happens all the time_".

-"_Well, horrible things have happened and the world hasn't ended yet_", she raises to the challenge, "_but what does that mean? That they weren't terrible enough, of that there is still hope?_" she finishes the question with a smile.

-"_And what is hope?_" I shoot back.

-"_Hope is the lack of complete certainty bad things have, Mr. Thornton_" and I almost applaud that one. "_At least that's how I see it_".

We're finishing our lunch now. Margaret waves the waiter and says that Mrs. Sanders should pay for our lunch, to which I try to refuse but she wouldn't hear me. She goes to the restroom and is back quickly and then we say goodbye.

-"_Mr. Thornton_", she says when we're about to part ways on the street, "_now I must run an errand to some place not far from here. If you don't have anywhere else to be this afternoon, would you like to come with me?_"


	55. Pack clouds away

July, 27th

_Margaret:_

I hadn't thought of asking John to come with me to sign a little paper at a jewellers' on my cousin's behalf, but I was enjoying the conversation too much and didn't really want to let it go yet.

-"_This way_", I say and we set out at the same time. I think this is the first time we walk side by side and I delight in the small fact that we both walk in long strides. Some shop windows reflect our image, two tall people, one of them embarrassed and awkward and the other well lived and wise, striding side by side to an inconsequential destiny.

We pass by a park where young children play with a ball. The ball gets out the game and rolls almost to our feet. John cuts to the ball, steps on it as to make it bounce, holds it with one hand, lets it fall and gives it a high precision kick that makes the ball fly exactly to the hands of the kid who was expecting it. Amazement inducing.

-"_Did you ever play football?_", I ask when he joins me, "_I mean, professionally_".

-"_No_", he says, "_not football. I played rugby when I was a teenager and really liked it_". Now that he mentions it I realize he has the right physique for tough contact sports. "_I had dreams of playing for the national team but had to quit at seventeen_".

-"_That's the age you were when you dropped school, right?_" he nods, "_Why did you quit?_" I ask suddenly interested. Most dropouts are people like Bessy, with early parental responsibilities or simply apathetic, but he doesn't strike me as any.

-"_My father died and I had to work_", he says simply.

That's so sad. "_I'm sorry to hear that. Was he ill?_" I wouldn't normally feel like I could ask, but today... it feels like I can.

He looks me out of the corner of his eye.

-"_One could say so. He was depressive and committed suicide. I mentioned it once to your father, didn't you know it?_", he says in the flat voice of people who have to live with something painful for so long. I shake my head.

This information comes as a shock. Depression is a little understood mental disease of which I know next to nothing, so I stick with facts. A father with children and wife to support, committing suicide... sounds so selfish and weak. So unlike the son. I'm silent.

-"_It was long ago_", he continues. "_My life didn't become the one I had planned and expected, but it's alright._"

-"_What had you planned?_"

-"_I wanted to study mechanical engineering or becoming a professional rugby player_", he smiles lost in thought. "_Instead I had my own business for a good decade_" he says so wistfully that it squeezes my heart.

-"_How old were you when it happened?_" he frowns at me, "_I mean, you all; your mother and sister, and himself._"

-"_My father was forty-five. My mother was about thirty something, no, closer to forty, I was sixteen and my sister was five,_" he recounts.

-"_You have an eleven year gap with your sister_," I remark. "_Are any of you adopted?_"

He looks injured. "_Of course not_", he replies a little hotly. "_My mother got sick when I was little and my sister was unplanned, as far as I know, or she was my father's last attempt to love life back_." He shrugs. "_I don't know. But no, we're not adopted. What makes you say so?_" he finishes still frowning.

I'm unimpressed.

-"_I was adopted, this is why I asked_", I say calmly but secretly hoping to shock him. I succeed a little too well but try not to regret it.

-"_Had you never noticed it?_" I continue and smile, "_Both my parents were really old, besides it wasn't a secret. I figured it out myself pretty soon and was alright with that_" I normally don't discuss my feelings about being an adoptive daughter but one for one, I guess.

-"_How did you find out?_", he asks quietly.

-"_Well, my mother was forty-five when I was born. It's not impossible but pretty unusual, don't you think?_", I pause, _"and... it's alright. They loved me well and I've always been thankful for that. The one thing I'm sorry for is that they didn't live longer, I suppose_". I'm getting a little sad myself but smile up at him. "_I also met my birth mother, who was Melanie Sanders' partner_".

-"_Financial partner?_", asks John.

-"_Sentimental partner_" I say and look him in the face while this information sinks. I don't know why people make such a fuss of discovering someone they know is homosexual. "_And she's the one who left me the money. She died in an accident last December_", I finish.

-"_I'm sorry to hear that_", he says.

-"_Thank you_", I reply.

* * *

_John:_

So last year Margaret lost her adoptive mother, her adoptive father and her biological mother. Sounds like she had a really tough year, tougher than mine for sure.

We're at the front of a small jewelry store and she rings the bell at the door. We're let in, she speaks to the assistant, someone else comes and she signs a little paper.

-"_Well, we're done with this_", she says as we get out. "_Thank you for coming with me_", says as she lowers her face and irons the skirt of her dress with her hands. The ball is in my court and I hit it as hard as I can.

-"_I'm a little thirsty_" and it's true. "_Would you join me for a coffee or something?_" I say fervently hoping that she says yes.

-"_There's an ice cream shop a couple of blocks over there_" she says and the hint of mischief I detected that night so long ago at the Black Dog, is there. I could almost catch it with my hand. I scramble to say something about being a good girl but it can be misconstrued so easily that I keep my mouth shut.

-"_I've been a good girl_", she says, "_so I'll have strawberry_."

I try to smile just to myself but I can't. The smile just spreads over my face and I look away to disguise it.

We walk the two blocks get into the shop and buy two cones, strawberry for the lady, lemon for the thirsty gentleman.

Seeing Margaret eating her ice cream does things to my head I hope my face doesn't show. I feign interest in my lemon cone but it's stupid. I give up and I stare at her for a good minute and she doesn't mind one bit. She seems so happy with her strawberry ice cream that I get to wonder if, rich as she is now, she doesn't get them more often.

We're done in a few minutes and fortunately I've managed not to spill over my shirt or trousers. Margaret looks perfect as always. We set out to wander - "_not all who wander are lost_" comes to my mind.

* * *

_Margaret:_

This ice cream was heaven sent, as it was the rest because I'm a little tired on my feet, although I wouldn't mind keep walking until I have blisters just not to stop this conversation.

We pass a bookstore featuring a book about the 9/11 terrorist attacks.

-"_Everyone remembers what they were doing when they heard about the Twin Towers attack_", I say pulling for a topic that's always so interesting. "_I was at school and they made us go underground. In retrospect it was a crazy and unnecessary thing to do, but I remember the fear they'd bombed London next very clearly_". It's been more than a decade and we can almost laugh about it, or so it seems.

-"_What were you doing that day of September?_", I ask him.

-"_I_ _was_" he pauses slightly,_ "getting divorced"._

That knocks me over with a feather. Married? John's been married? How many times? To whom? Why did he divorce? Is he married now? None of those questions are good, I know. I realize that I'm silent and opening my mouth and then shutting it; I probably look like fish.

-"_I suppose it's not a topic you enjoy discussing_", I begin and he nods.

-"_That's right_", he says.

-"_But there's something I'd like to ask_", I continue now more firmly. "_I suppose the answer is public knowledge, it's just that I don't know it_". I turn to look at him and slower my pace. "_Do you have children?_"

-"_No, I don't have children_" he says in that calm voice I like so much.

I don't know if that reply makes me feel happy or relieved or sad. It's just that I'm realizing that John has lost so much that his words that January afternoon come back to me. He must have been very lonely, he's probably still so.

-"_Speaking of which_", he says suddenly, "_I understand congratulations might be in order"._

_-"Really?_," I say carelessly. "_Who's getting married?_" It takes me a couple of steps to realize that John hasn't moved from his spot. I turn to him and he's very still, head slightly cocked to his right. He raises one eyebrow and I mimic his gesture with an eyebrow of my own, but when I realize who he thinks is getting married the other eyebrow joins it, violently, and stay up near my hairline.

-"_Me?_" I say incredulously. "_You think I am getting married?_" My eyes are wide, this situation is so ridiculous, so absurd, that of all people John Thornton believes me to be engaged to someone else that I can't help it. A fit of laughter rips through me.

-"_I guess I was mistaken_", he says quietly after a while, looking quite offended. I can't talk because I'm laughing hysterically but nod my head.

It's the most unladylike thing to do, to morph into an hyena, but I'd never been so relaxed around him and it's so far from reality that I can't stop myself. He doesn't seem so offended anymore, now he's more like mystified.

-"_What's so funny?_" he asks, still very quietly.

I try to calm down and wipe the tears from my eyes. I don't know how to reply. It's not funny, John, not funny at all.

-"_I guess I'm surprised you'd think that, because you're the last man to have asked me out_" honesty taking over my voice, "_and as far as I remember I said no_".

-"_You said no_", he repeats.

-"_I... I know you probably don't care about it anymore, but I want to believe it's not too late to apologize_." I would hold his hand but I don't dare. "_I would like to apologize to you, for being so heartless and rude when you told me about your feelings, I said things I should have never said to anybody, least of all you, and there are no excuses for it. I am sorry_" I look up at him, my tears not from laughter anymore. "_I hope you have forgotten me and one day you'll forgive me too_".

-"_It's_", he starts saying "_alright_", and he shrugs.

* * *

_John:_

We're near the old General Post Office building now. Margaret put a shield around her after she apologized and I'm speechless. So, she's not engaged... She said she was sorry for how she turned me down but not exactly for doing it. Margaret stops and asks me if I've ever been to Postman's Park, and the answer is no.

A moment ago we were in a bustling street but it's like we've stepped into a parallel dimension, so calm it is in here. It's the Memorial to Heroic Self Sacrifice, remembering everyday people who died saving others - not firemen, not soldiers, just ordinary people.

-"_Imagine giving your life trying to save someone_", Margaret says thoughtfully.

-"_You tell me_", I say and she stops right where she is.

-"_I didn't die_", she replies frowning. "_And it was quite a stupid thing to do. I should have warned you instead!_"

-"_What happened that night?_" I want to know. "_I was minding my own business then two people came and hit you. I didn't know you were there in the first place._" I've tried to make sense of that night many times but there are too many missing pieces.

-"_I was about to cross the street and saw two people riding a moped that looked like my friend Bessy's_", she begins. "_Later on I learned it wasn't, but at that moment I thought they might have stolen it from her. I saw them getting off it, going into the parking lot and stationing themselves behind the bushes near your car._" She scratches her arm idly. "_I didn't know for sure it was your car, either. Well, then I saw you coming out and heading for your car and those people attacking you. It was... There wasn't any choice in my mind then. I didn't consider options. I just pictured you unconscious and bleeding and it was_" she shakes her head, "_horrible_".

Well, it had been horrible having her bleeding and almost unconscious.

-"I_t wasn't heroic but idiotic of me. If I had spoken to you the moment I saw you going out it would have been much simpler, don't you think?_" she challenges me to disagree. I disagree but I don't voice it.

-"_I think you should have let me thank you_", I try to find a fault in her reasoning.

-"_You're welcome_", she says and opens her palms up. No big deal. "_I should have. My bad_".

The events that happened the next day are still fresh, the wound still open.

-"_About your apologies_" I have finally found the right words in my head, _"I just want you to know that I accept them. It's alright, don't think more of it. I'm sorry I..._" My voice comes out strangled by a lump in my throat, "_I know I picked a really bad time and I'm sorry. But the thing I regret the most about that day is that you thought I was doing it for some misguided sense of duty or obligation". _Oh well, here we're jumping off the cliff again. "_I wasn't_" I shake my head and loneliness rubs its ugly hands again. "_I hadn't done it before because I never thought you'd accept it. And I just let myself believe that for once things might..._" I don't finish the sentence.

While I spoke Margaret covered her eyes with her left hand and looked down, sobs rocking her body. I carefully, very carefully, hold her right hand and she doesn't pull away. I stroke it and hold it together with my hands near my chest. She looks up, her face contorting into strange grimaces with the effort of not crying.

-"_Shhh_", I say pulling her closer, to my chest, letting go of her hand and hugging her lightly. "_Don't cry. Please_".

-"_I know that you helped me with the Police investigation even if I never told you why I did it. I've always wanted to thank you for it, I even had planned to do so when my father returned from Oxford, that same day_", her broken voice blurts to my shirt, her tears wetting it and feeling warm against my skin. "_But he died and I couldn't. I'm so sorry_", and she's so sad but her words alight me with happiness.

-"_I had planned to ask you out again exactly that day_", I say and she looks up frowning in surprise. "_That's why I phoned your home, that's when I found out your father had died_".

Margaret blinks as if trying to make sense of what it had been just said.

-"_Really?_"

-"_Yes, really._"

Her right hand squeezes mine and she raises it to my face, with her index lightly outlining my nose and letting her palm and fingers over my jaw. It's a light caress, barely noticeable, but it makes my heart beat faster.

- "_This is one nice beard you have. Why did you grow it?_" she asks smiling, I suspect that pleased with herself to have broached facial contact.

- "_I don't know_", I just did. _"Do you like it?_" Does she like bearded men? Daniel said I looked like an angry lumberjack but he likes to add color. Was he right?

- "_Mmmmh_" she smiles, "_I do like what's beneath, that's for sure_". The wandering finger stops on my lips and she lowers her hand. She is serious now and I know I can kiss her, that she wants me to but won't ask for it herself. I put her arms around me, then my left arm goes down to encircle her waist and my right hand slides up her back and neck, cradles her nape for a moment, the thumb slides to her jaw and with the tip of my index I tilt up her chin, look into her beautiful eyes making sure she doesn't want to say no, and then, I pour my heart out in a kiss.

* * *

A/N: To those of you who live and love London: I'm sorry I'm being so unfaithful to your beautiful city. Besides, this is supposed to coincide with the Olympics opening ceremony but there's no mention to it! How could that be? However, the most fiction like thing about this piece is that the weather is nice.

This is the second chapter based on "Before sunrise" and "Before sunset" films. I first heard of Postman's Park in the film "Closer" but I actually remembered about it thanks to a post by Mike Dash (The Smithsonian's Blogs: Past Imperfect): "On Heroic Self-Sacrifice: a London Park Devoted to Those Most Worth Remembering", and the unlikely titled tourist guide "Nothing to see here". I'm not sure it's anywhere close to a restaurant used by business people, a jeweller's, a park where children may kick a ball around or a bookstore selling books on 9/11.


	56. One night with two suns

WARNING: This chapter is M-ish in content, though I'm striving for a tamed and suggestive style. If you're easily offended just leap on to the next one. If you enjoy juicy detailed descriptions, just leap to the next one too (you'll probably be disappointed).

* * *

July, 27th

_John:_

We kiss and laugh and hug and kiss some more, spinning in a strange waltz to which only the plaques of long dead people are witness. I pull away a little to look down at Margaret, my Margaret, into her dark smiling eyes, her plump pink lips, her soft pale skin now flushed. Her sadness seems to have evaporated and to have taken away mine with it.

The sun is going down and it's quite late, really, but I'd like to stay a little longer here - in this place and time. I run my fingers through her hair, shiny jet black and heavy, while her hands explore my face, ears, head and neck, and it's chaste and erotic at the same time.

Margaret laughs and says "_spongy!_", which is not exactly a word that was on my mind, and she says my beard is spongy, and yes, that she likes it very much but later confesses she would love just anything on me. This is a novelty, I'm not used to receiving compliments on my looks. We kiss more, and more, gasping and laughing and touching, while time just seems to sprint by.

A while later I really think it's time to take this lady back home, obviously against my wishes and hopefully against hers too. But it's late, I'm fully aroused and... well, the proper thing to do is to stop right here. Rushing things is stupid and I don't want to ruin anything. Not without some effort I disentangle myself and let the voice of reason speak. "_It's late and you must be tired, blah blah blah_", hoping she won't feel I'm standing her up or regretting anything.

Her face is mock serious, frowning and nodding as if she was making a very cerebral decision. She raises from the seat, tidies her clothes and hair, and clears her throat, theatrically regaining composure as if she had just stumbled on a cracked tile. She's really funny, I didn't know this about her.

- "_You're right, it's quite late,_" and looks up at me, assessing, "_I, yes, I'm a little tired. Maybe I should go home. Where are you staying?_"

-"_My brother-in-law owns a little apartment he uses when he comes to London for business_", I reply.

She nods and heads for the street. "_Let's get going_", she says taking hold of my hand, "_I'll take a taxi_" and then faces me, wrapping me with her arms, crushing me lightly, burrowing her face in my chest, not letting me go.

A little later I hail a cab and open the door for her. As she climbs into it she whispers on my ear, "_Come with me_", and sits and looks up and bites her lip and it's so irresistible that I need to restrain myself from diving over her. I sit composedly as any two pair of people would in a cab but the moment it pulls out the curbside she turns over me and kisses me wildly. I try not to get ahead of myself here but it's difficult.

She goes back to her seat and covers a very girlish giggle with her hand.

-"_I've always wanted to kiss someone in a cab_", she says.

-"_Was it good?_" I ask, a wide grin taking over my face.

She laughs while shrugging a little and bending her head lower, probably a little embarrassed, but then looks up at me again and this time it's me, my mouth the one seeking, hungry and thirsty for hers, the skin of my face just needing the touch of hers, my hands learning the silky and solid curves of her shoulders, her arms, her back.

We arrive to our destination, her destination, her home, and I wonder if I should stay in the taxi and go to my place, but to my hesitation she simply points to the sidewalk with her head and I get out with her, to Margaret's home.

This is all so crazy.

* * *

_Margaret:_

This is crazy but somehow feels right. This cannot possibly be wrong. I know, it's strange... I've offered this man my money, my trust and my heart. If I lose, I'll lose everything, my pride included. But tonight, winner takes all.

I hold John's hand and he kisses my temple tenderly as we ride the elevator up to my flat, while I mentally thank Henry. He once said one must always have condoms in one's house to attract passion (he put it in very _feng shui_ terms but I think he was pulling my leg), and left a few in the bathroom cabinet. I'm not sure we'll need them tonight; we could keep talking all night long and it would be, surely, just right.

It's as if from the moment we stepped out of the restaurant early afternoon we've been going with the flow. On and on and on.

* * *

_John:_

We arrive to Margaret's apartment and I don't want to stare and appraise but it seems to be gorgeous and have a great view. "_Like its inhabitant"_, I chuckle inwardly.

Margaret kicks off her sandals and rubs her heels. "_Would you like to eat something?_", she asks while going to an adjoining kitchen where everything is steely and new. "_I'm starving, how about a sandwich?_" and she starts opening doors and taking things out. She washes her hands and I hand her a towel, and then inspect the contents of the fridge and pull out two little bottles of Stella Artois.

-"_Just for you, I don't drink_", she says over her shoulder while slicing tomatoes. I remember the orange juice and the non-champagne, and the fact that I've never seen her actually drinking any alcoholic beverage.

-"_Why not?_"

-"_I don't like_ it", she shrugs._ "But Edith and Ian do and I always have some for them_", her nimble hands keep putting together our sandwiches. "_I'd like some apple juice, please_".

I've yearned for so long for this politeness addressed to me that it almost pained me, and now I have it. Something seems to expand within my chest, near my throat, but I don't dwell on it. The present is far too interesting and I'll think of it later.

We bring the sandwiches and drinks on trays onto the seating area. Margaret sits and tucks her right foot under and her left foot toes barely touch the floor. She has only removed her shoes, her summery sandals, yet it's a step toward nakedness my mind registers as huge. It is incredible how much longer a leg looks when it includes a view of the heel, and the instep, and the toes.

The marvel is that now I can openly look, admire, enjoy. That's what a kiss, or two, or many, allow you to do.

We haven't kissed in about ten minutes, the longest we've gone since our mouths met each other in the park, and the mood has changed a little. I finish my sandwich and stand up.

-"_Mind if I take a look?_", I state an obvious intention.

-"_Be my guest_", she's still eating her sandwich. "_Are you still hungry? Would you like a piece of fruit or another sandwich?_" my perfect hostess asks.

Matter of fact I could eat an elephant but there are other priorities right now. "_I'm alright, thank you_" I reply.

There's a nice painting on the wall and I approach to it. It's of two girls wearing striped bath suits near a swimming pool in a summer day. I look at it closely; it's not the work of an amateur painter, that's evident, and it's quite pleasing. The girls look a lot like each other, maybe they're sisters, and to my untrained eye the style seems timeless... it could have been painted in the forties or sixties or last year.

Margaret is standing by my side now. I inspect the face of the girl on the left, the one with darker hair, more closely.

-"_Is this you?_" It sounds a little ridiculous when said aloud but the girl really looks like a rounder faced Margaret.

Margaret nods.

-"_You're the first one to notice_", she says quietly and lightly touching my arm. "_Well done_", she adds but sounds a little wistful.

-"_Who's the other one?_" It's nosy but I hope she won't mind.

-"_My birth mother. It's a long story I'd rather not tell tonight_", she smiles and cocks her head but there's sadness lingering in her eyes.

My left hand goes to her back and let my right hand's forefinger start on the bridge of her nose and slide across the little crevices and plains and ridges of her cheeks, jaw, neck, shoulders and and the rest of the hand joins it for the arms. Her skin erupts in goosebumps under my hands and her own hands start an exploration of their own around my waist and up my ribs and back, but stops and lowers her hands to her sides.

She looks me intently, her dark and mysterious eyes searching into mine questioningly. I imagine which question is that, the same I knew that would come up anytime and it's here, it's one of three and a half million pounds and honor and trust and pride, but mostly, of love. And I'm ready to voice it.

-"_Margaret_", her name is the most precious word of my vocabulary, "_I love you. I've loved you for so long_", to my surprise my eyes flood and I throw my head back and blink so tears won't escape while I hold her tighter, "_Please tell me, do I have to leave now?_"

Margaret shakes her head as she leans her face softly to me, and I think she'll kiss me but instead closes her eyes and the tip of her nose slightly touches my chest, where she inhales with all her might.

-"_Your smell_", she pauses and inspires again, "_has driven me crazy from the first time it came to me_", her eyelids are heavy as she opens her eyes to peer up at me, "_at your party, so long ago. It was intoxicating me while you were talking about I don't know what, and I was afraid you'd notice_", she says and is back to my chest, where my heart is pounding with such force that I can barely process this unexpected confession. Her fingers start unbuttoning my shirt, for nose exploration I suppose while a little smile dances in her lips, but waits for my consent.

Which I willingly bestow, of course, and then I do some unbuttoning of my own, and my nose and my mouth and my ears and eyes and my whole skin, blood, muscles and bones, heart and mind and soul join all together in the exploration of the woman - nymph - woman before me. A little later most of our clothes lay discarded on the seats and floor and Margaret takes me by the hand to her bedroom, lights a little lamp shedding soft minimal light, and seats on the bed. She takes off the rest of her clothes and unhooks her bra (not one with a front clasp, I hazily notice) and tosses it aside exclaiming "_That bra was killing me!_" and I would reply in jest but I can't.

She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Every particle of me is in awe, in marvel of her voluptuousness, of her being rounder and wider and more solid and more real than any tenacious attempt of my imagination could conjure. The ivory tone of her skin make the curves of her body stand out against the dimness of the room like a mysterious water flower floating on a dark stream.

I'm naked too, my nakedness rougher and earthlier and darker than her own luminous one. I extend one hand and pull her up to her feet and to me; the wondrous volumes of her chest softly graze my own, my hands slide down her slim waist and wide hips, and her, oh Lord, her ass fills my hands just perfectly. Her hands explore my body, intent on learning it by heart I suddenly think, and stirring me into a higher level of alertness. We start a dance, a soundless rhythm that flows from us both, a delicate harmony it took us so long to discover.

Her arms round my neck and her fingers playfully caress the space between my shoulder blades, a spot in my own body I can feel but I cannot reach. Her foot slides up my calf and her inner thigh grazes the side of my upper leg, a wordless invitation to a place of heat and moist and wonder that has been on my mind for far too long (too reckless, too unwise).

-"_First time?_" I ask just in case. She shakes her head as her white, long, beautiful leg wraps over my buttocks. "_Up!_" I say softly and her other leg joins it, ankles crossing behind me, encircling me and I'm holding her up, the weight I remember so well, finally, again in my arms.

She rests her forehead against mine and closes her eyes and a very timid smile pulls up the corners of her lips.

-"_Just first time in a long time_" she answers and looks at me, as I don't think anyone's ever looked at me before, with trust, and warmth, and God, yes, love.

* * *

There are times in one's personal sexual history, milestones in which one is inclined to believe everything one has lived so far, every year filled with the good and the bad, with pain and joy, every failure and success experienced, actually meant a build up to one prime sexual encounter. When everything I've lived and learned was meant to make me the man I am tonight, a man worthy of Margaret Hale's love.

The whole night is an interweaving of foreplay, orgasmic ecstasy and afterglow to which beginning and ending are not really distinguishable points. Our bodies continue the conversation we've held during the day in their own language, one of understanding and agreement, celebration and exploration. Of textures of skin: smooth, taut, soft, callused, hidden in secret folds, warm and moist and expectant. Of textures of hair: smooth, spongy, curly, wiry. Of muscle bunching, turning and stretching. The finger pad's memory of jutting bones and joints and cartilages. The tasting route from the visible to the invisible, the dry and wet and silky secret places of a sweet delicate body that welcomes and engloves mine perfectly, so perfectly that I know that there is not going to be anybody else, ever.

I lived thirty-six years and a month to this night, this definite night. Whatever comes next in my life is being decided now, and it's with Margaret.

* * *

_Margaret:_

John tries sweetly but pointlessly to let me sleep, just to awake me five minutes later with his strokes and kisses. I don't want to sleep so I join him or I start on my own... it's just... wonderful, amazing, but true. This is real. This is right.

To my surprise we keep talking, sparingly, but we do. Of my gay ex boyfriend, of his unfaithful ex wife. Of my studies and diploma, of his knowledge of engines repair. We talk about ourselves, of our misunderstandings and of falling in love with each other.

I feel I could keep talking and making love to John for ever and always.

* * *

The sun's rays leak through the curtains and awake me. My head is on John's strong shoulder, my face on the crook of his neck, my arm crossing his chest, my leg possessively trapping his. His breathing is very quiet and I guess he's awaken too. I raise my head slowly and meet his eyes, gray and brilliant and wide open.

-"_So, it wasn't a dream_", my voice is thick with sleep, or lack thereof.

His free hand cradles my jaw and he kisses my forehead.

-"_I have to get up_", he says quietly.

He obviously must go, but my heart sinks at the prospect of his absence. I raise and sit on the bed hugging my knees and he sits too. In the morning light his body is even more glorious, or is it, perhaps, that I judge it by the things that body did (does) to mine?

He flexes one leg and dangles the other to the floor, his chest facing me. I think we're going to have a conversation and suddenly I'm a bit wary, just a little tad insecure. Not that I would admit it, of course.

-"_Margaret, there are a few things I want to do now, in no particular order_", he says softly while taking my hand and his thumb massages my knuckles. "_One_", and his thumb goes to my thumb's knuckle, "_I would like to have a shower. Two_", his thumb moves onto the next knuckle, "_I'd like to go save my business. Third_," I'm suspecting there are five items in this list, _"I want to make love to you again. Fourth, I'd like to make breakfast to you, and last, but not least_," the thumb rubs circles on my pinky's little knuckle, "_I want to ask you to marry me._"

This last one comes as a surprise even after all the events of the past twenty-four hours, I admit. My eyes widen and I smile, more like a giggle.

-"_Unfortunately," _he pats the front of his chest and legs as if he were wearing clothes instead of being completely naked,_ "I don't have a ring with me_ _so it's more of a statement of intentions", _my giggle is open laughter now and his white teeth contrast magically and beautifully against the dark mass of his beard, "_Breakfast and shower can be done straight away_", and his smile embodies the charm I fought off so stubbornly when we first met.

We get up and have a quick shower (admittedly difficult but time is pressing), and then get dressed (I would steal his shirt but he doesn't have anything else to wear), and go to the kitchen to make breakfast. Toasts, coffee, yoghurt, fruits, freshly squeezed juice, I'm starving! I could eat it all.

John eats efficiently. Matter of fact I don't think I've ever seen anyone eating so fast. He pauses a moment when he notices my gaze and smiles boyishly.

-"_I love you, Margaret, I love you so much. I am tempted not to accept the loan_" my stomach drops at this, "_because that would keep me in Milton and you're here. And I don't care about your money, I care about you. But at the same time"_ he continues, "_I would be pretty much useless bankrupt, so I'll make sure the Mills are up and running fast so I can repay you, to the last penny."_

The practical questions start popping up in my head. How are we going to manage, where are we going to live? What life is like when there's a big loan of money in between? Will I stay here and he'll be there? I must be frowning while I think this because John tilts up my chin with his forefinger._  
_

-"_We'll sort things out, you'll see_", and his broad, huge smile is so confident and contagious that my face just mirrors it.


	57. The first day of it all

July, 28th

_Margaret:_

It's 10.00 AM and we're dressed and ready for... I'm not exactly sure what. Kiss each other goodbye, perhaps? I hope not.

John takes me by the hand and invites me to sit next to him on the couch. He's in full John Thornton mode, the man I first met and didn't like. He is the same. I'm not.

-"_Margaret_", he leans forward with his elbows perched on his thighs, and he closes his hands in fists and then stretches out his palms and fingers, a gesture I think he does when he's planning what to do, "_Sanders sent me a message and rescheduled the meeting for today and I still have to confirm. I want to know, are you coming today too?_" His gaze is piercing and his face is a strange combination of softness and strength. "_I think you should, but that's up to you, really, and..._" he takes again my hand and caresses it, "_Are you sure about the loan? It's a lot of money_".

-"_John_", is this our first argument as a couple?, "_It is the right thing to do_", it has just dawned on me that this used to be a painful prerequisite but apparently it is painful no more, "_and I don't want to argue about it_".

His eyes widen.

-"_My love, we're not arguing_", he kisses my hand. "_How many investor meetings with Sanders have you attended?_"

-"_Yesterday was going to be my first one_".

A smile blooms in his face like the first sunshine spreading through the morning's sky.

-"_Well, I've known Sanders for a long time. She and I understand each other well but we're not exactly best friends_", he says.

-"_What_" I frown, "_does that mean?_"

John pauses for a moment and I realize that Melanie and John must be both very difficult to bargain with.

-"_You're not in the middle, you know? Sanders protects your interests and she does so admirably. I'd say you come and listen, and if you have any questions you ask. But have faith_" and his eyes sparkle. How could I not have faith in him? Now I am sure he can do everything, maybe even fly. "_I would rather change my clothes before lunch. Do you want to come with me or do we meet at the restaurant?_"

Even if it's John's temporary lodgings I am so curious to see where he lives that I agree. We get there a little later, it's a tiny flat decorated to anyone's taste; not ugly but utterly impersonal.

The wardrobe, instead, is a feast for my nose. Everything smells of John. It's divine.

-"_Where do you live in Milton?_", I ask while letting my fingertips do what I'd rather have my nose do.

He's putting on a clean shirt, unfortunately covering what I'd prefer stayed bare. Ah.

-"_I had to sell my home so I'm currently living with my mother. Exactly what a man says to impress a lady_", he adds with a self deprecatory chuckle.

I smile back but this is no laughing matter. The impact of Marlborough Mills going down is just huge. Hopefully things will change soon.

-"_How do you see yourself as part of the Mills management?_" asks John from the bathroom, where he's brushing his teeth. "_Hypothetically speaking, I mean. But how would that work with you?_"

Strange question. It had never crossed my mind because I want to be where I can make a difference, policy making or fighting against gender inequalities, or...

Wait a moment.

Why not from Marlborough Mills itself? Would it work out? Why not?

John is peering down at me attentively while all these ideas cross my mind at high speed.

-"_I never pictured myself working in heavy machinery repair industry management, that's all_", I reply truthfully. "_But I need some time to think it over... and I don't know... we'd be working together_".

-"_Do you see now that the Mills isn't just about mechanics?"_ The respect and affection of these words are eye opening._ "I'm sure we could make a great team_", John adds encouragingly, "_but if you feel it won't make you happy then just leave it at that. Just an idea..._"

It honours me that he believes me capable of helping manage the Mills, that I can be trusted with that responsibility even if I evidently have no previous background to speak of. I realize this is the first time someone's opinion of me counts so much. I see myself through his eyes, and what I see isn't half bad.

I shrug and smile and we head for the restaurant where roughly twenty-four hours ago we met not to be apart since. This thought makes me laugh and I share it with John, who gives that sly, half smile I'm getting acquainted with and that makes my knees go weak.

* * *

_John:_

We enter the restaurant together and fortunately Ms. Sanders hasn't arrived yet. We're lead to another table; yesterday's table is occupied, I notice, by an elderly couple who are quietly smiling at each other over their menus. As we sit at the newly assigned table I keep them in my field of vision and for a fleeting second I wish one day Margaret and I will be like those two. But then I'm back to the present, to asking for water and waiting.

* * *

_Margaret:_

Melanie arrives five minutes past time and apologizes for her tardiness. She shakes hands with John and kisses me on the cheek, a very mother-like gesture of her that makes me feel appreciated and protected.

We order our meals; I stick with the chicken salad but John today asks for a steak with a side of mashed potatoes. I'm sure he must be starving and I muse about his eating habits: a body like his must need a lot of energy and it the past twenty-four hours a lot went off and very little in.

Soon Melanie and John start discussing details of the loan and they lose me very quickly. Matter of fact they seem to be talking in their own language and lack of sleep catches up with me. I blink so my eyelids don't drop and I stifle yawn after yawn.

Well, this is embarrassing.

John's eyes are slightly puffy and if watched closely one could detect dark circles under them, but there's no other telling sign in his demeanor that he hasn't rested.

-"_Excuse me_", I tell them, "_I'm afraid I'm not following you. This is all a little overwhelming._"

Both Melanie and John interrupt their conversation? argument? recitation? and look at me, a shade of concern crossing their faces although I guess they have different meanings. I make a very vague gesture that could mean just anything but only tries to cover the fact that I feel like a fool.

-"_I need to go to the ladies'. Please do go on_", I say standing up and summoning all my coordination not to trip or do something stupid. Once in the bathroom I put my forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and exhale, alleviated. I am exhausted and actually exhilarated. Flashes of last night have been parading insistingly in my mind, and behind the shut door of this bathroom, I can relish in them and allow my face to grin widely, unabashedly, and my repressed laughter comes out in chortles.

Not that I had discussed this with anyone before, still haven't of course, but I used to believe there was an unwritten protocol to be followed when getting intimate with someone else. A tacit required delay in between the steps intended to provide an _in crescendo_ that warranted, so to speak, the formality and seriousness of the relationship. That some things (and I blush just to remember some in particular) are simply not done in a first time, especially just hours after a first kiss and especially when they're one's first times in such matters at all.

Well, this was all overrun last night. I just didn't know, I had no idea, I could experience so much pleasure. It was... explosive. My old self blew off in pieces and joined itself back with a similar look but oh so different feel.

An not a smaller surprise was to find out that I was capable of giving so much pleasure, either. To let and be let into one's deepest vulnerability, that's what it's about. Every word that comes to mind, of awe and amazement, falls short to describe how I feel.

I don't want Mel and John to think there's something wrong with me so I splash cold water over my eyes, pat myself dry and go back to the table. Once there I smile brightly at them hoping I don't seem deranged.

-"_We're setting some extra provisions per Mr. Thornton's request_", Melanie says smiling knowingly. Oh good, someone's spilled the beans. John's lips twitch in a sheepish grin.

-"_If you think they're necessary, Melanie, I trust you_", I try to instill some confidence in my words.

Lunch drags forward. Against my better judgment I want to go to bed, or to kiss John madly, or tell Melanie I'm alright, but I school myself to pay attention instead.

Once the meal is over and the agreement signed, Melanie informs that she must be somewhere else (I doubt so but I give her points for being discreet), and John and I get off the restaurant together.

-"_You're exhausted_", he smiles tenderly and his right index grazes lightly my cheek, "_go home and rest. I'll call you, or better yet, you call me when you feel like._"

-"_You must be pretty tired yourself too, don't you?_" I'm just blabbering. I only want to get some sleep.

-"_Don't worry about me._" he shakes his head and shrugs, all selflessness charm. "_I managed not to sign the menu, didn't I?_" and I giggle at this unexpected piece of humor. "_Just let's make sure you have my number_".

Oh, right. I've never called him, I... well, this is strange. We exchange numbers and he turns to hail a cab for me, but I squeeze his arm lightly so he doesn't.

I just need a moment outside the whirlwind we've been caught into, just a moment of not being coming or going or anything. Just a moment to say goodbye, see you later, I love you.

We just hold each other and I savour this public intimacy; then I get into a taxi and get home, and for the first time in my life I just fall face first on my bed and sleep in my clothes, utterly and hopelessly intoxicated with love, lust and happiness.


	58. Unspeakably kind

A/N: I've always wondered why stories so often end at a point where characters are in a position of truly having the best conversations of the book. I forgive Mrs. Gaskell, of course, but it seems to be a common narrative ailment in romance novels. My personal views, of course.

* * *

July, 28th

_John:_

At around 10.00 PM my phone buzzes with a message from Margaret asking if I'm awake and requesting permission (permission!) to call me. I don't grant it; I phone her myself.

The conversation is sweet, a little rambling, and finishes with me just packing my suitcase and going to her home. She said she had slept soundly since early afternoon and now was famished, and even though I had already eaten there is no argument deterring me from having a second dinner. As the taxi rides through the streets of her neighborhood I whistle and let my gaze go to the starry sky of this warm summer night. I'm happy.

She opens the door wearing a different dress, one I seem to recall from Milton. I tell her so and she's delightfully stunned that I remembered and noticed. I think it still hasn't dawned on her that I've been in love with her pretty much since the first time I laid eyes on her, that day of September almost two years ago.

We cook together; the menu is _penne alla vodka_. I strain the pasta while Margaret stirs the sauce, working side by side, joking lightly. She points me where the dinner service is and I carry it all to the table on the balcony, where we sit and eat. Margaret brings a small bottle of fruity red wine; I soon learn she does have a fully equipped bar but it's meant for guests and cooking only, a wine that compliments the meal wonderfully, and we talk, lovers' talk about everything and anything and nothing at all.

-"_When is your birthday?_" this has turned into a very important piece of information I cannot not know any longer.

-"_Twenty-four of June_", she replies smiling. "_Yours?_"

-"_Mine too!_" Go figure, out of three-hundreds and sixty-four days we picked the same one. "_I'm named after Saint John, actually._"

-"_What year?_" Margaret asks now, that wicked smile dancing in her eyes. "_I don't think we share that one_".

-"_Seventy-six. You?_" How old is Margaret? I've always thought somewhere near thirty.

-"_Eighty-eight_" she replies and boy does it shock me. She's just twenty-four. Not a child, by any means, but so young!

-"_You don't mind about that, do you?_" she asks looking positively worried now.

I snap out my stunned state and shake my head vigorously. But she was only twenty-two when we first met, at my party, at that game of volleyball, at the parking lot. Wow. I try not to dwell on that fact because she still looks mortified.

-"_It's just that I have this idea that women of twenty-two being immature, but it's... nonsense_" I try to reassure her. "_It's just that I had imagined you and I being closer in age_" now it's my turn to get a little worried, "_Do you mind?_"

She lets out a relieved laughter and throws her head back slightly.

-"_No!_", and chuckles a little more. "_I'm quite used to age gaps, actually. I have eight years with my brother, and had forty-five and forty-seven with my parents_" she looks down at her fork and adds, "_but sixteen with my birth mother_" and raises her eyebrows slightly.

-"_Do you know who's your birth father? Have you ever met him?_" I don't care about the answer itself but I'm under the impression that we won't talk about this again, and I want to know how Margaret feels about it.

-"_The rapist? No, nor I have any interest_" her gaze is suddenly harsh but I know it's not against me, "_I only know he was someone of Sylvia's entourage and when confronted to the pregnancy_" and here she points at her chest, "_claimed something to the effect that he had been seduced and accepted no liability. Sylvia's family disowned her, kicked her to the street at fifteen, pregnant and with nowhere to go_."

Margaret's views become a little clearer to me now, shedding light on the motivations behind a few arguments we've had. While I don't regret having different points of view I understand her a little better.

-"_Fortunately a friend came forward and took her in... but there's a thing I've never understood, one thing that makes me regret I didn't get to know Sylvia better_" she leans forward as she says this. "_Why didn't she get an abortion?_" The question just shoots cold shivers through my spine. "_I am grateful she didn't, of course..._"

-"_And so am I, and your parents, and everyone who's met you_" I interject almost against my will.

-"_Yeah, but..._" she doesn't finish the sentence. "_I'm not against abortion, you know? I think... I wonder if she really chose to complete the pregnancy and give up the baby or if someone else made those choices for her. If her life had been better, if..._"

This conversation is making me really uncomfortable.

-"_Margaret, you don't know that. Sylvia had you, gave you in adoption to people who loved you and then left you her money_" I try to say this softly and it comes out the way I intend it to. "_Everyone's lives hit a hard patch here and there, but her own life had some good things too,_" she nods at this, "_from what you said she found love and pursued an artistic career. I don't mean to belittle the traumatic event but..._"

-"_Yes, you're right._" She too seems eager to finish the topic. "_You cannot compare one life to another, that's correct. You know, sixteen seems to have been a turning point in some of my closest people's lives_" she smiles and continues, "_I was almost that age when I met Sylvia - I should have been eighteen but it happened a little earlier; and Bessy Higgins was sixteen when her boy was born, and you were sixteen when your father died. Sixteen is not an age for the faint of heart, is it?_"

We laugh as we start eating dessert, which consists only of fresh fruit. We talk business, of her reticence of mingling with the Mills' management, of her idea of giving Bessy Higgins a scholarship so she studies and can advance in her career, on how I plan on getting the Mills back on track. Unlike this noon at the restaurant she seems to be following me perfectly. We finish our meal and bring everything into the kitchen, clean and leave everything in order. We seem to have similar views on housekeeping, I think as I smile to myself.

Later I keep the promise I made in the morning, to make love to her again, and I don't remember whether this was said or not but the mood hasn't worn off, and the wee hours of Sunday find us in each other's arms while sleep ignores us for a second night in a row.

* * *

July, 29th

_Margaret:_

John is going to leave tomorrow and we'll be in touch but we're still not sure when we'll see each other again. Maybe next weekend, maybe a few days later. I asked him to take me to Milton with him but he refused with a smile. "_You need sleep and you need time_", he said and added, "_it worried me when you said you were overwhelmed. I don't want to overwhelm you_" said as he stood behind me by the bathroom's mirror, draping his big arms around my chest, his right hand on my hip and his left on my ribcage.

Seemed quite overwhelming but I see his point. The rest of Sunday is spent eating, talking, making love and sparingly, resting (but not too much).

Aloud I plan on breaking the news to my family, that I'm not single anymore - tell the world that I'm in love with John Thornton and never been happier. John says he'd like to tell my brother himself, which I find hilarious and old fashioned and very endearing. But it doesn't really matter how on when.

What matters now is that John and I are together. Life is unspeakably kind.

* * *

Note: "Life is unspeakably kind" is a wonderful line from a wonderful book, "Fools rush in" by Kristan Higgins.


	59. Excuse me?

August, 3rd_  
_

_Daniel:_

John's business went down the gutter and he went to London to get rid of the corpse, he said referring to the long term lease on the premises. He had mentioned being back before that weekend but he stayed there a bit longer. Having free accommodation gives you some sort of flexibility, although my friend is not known for improvising his way around I hoped he had met with some lady friend of his and was easing the bitter moment.

Well, the lady friend part wasn't too far off. To everyone's astonishment he returned Monday afternoon with money to get his business back afloat and, I'm still trying to get over the shock here, the news that he has a bride. Who is no one but Margaret Hale.

It seems that she's rich now and she was the one to offer him the money (and quite a lot actually) but the thing is that by serendipity they crossed paths and uncrossed stars, and I've never seen my friend in such state of pure bliss before. The biggest wonder, for me at least, is that it has so obviously little to do with the fact that Marlborough Mills came from the undead and a lot, or perhaps everything, to do with this woman.

I still don't like Margaret Hale. She proved to be cold hearted and dangerous but somehow she redeemed herself and, I had already thought this to myself before, John was lonely and I'd be glad someone put and end to it. John doesn't gush about her - he's hardly said a word other than what was strictly necessary, but he checks his phone all the time and smiles, he smiles a lot.

How could I not be happy for him?

* * *

_Bessy:_

I haven't heard much from Margaret in the past few months; I've been so busy with the daycare project and then the shop closing down and looking for a new job that I really haven't had much time. From time to time Phil and I write her letters, old fashioned letters including many drawings from Phil, to which she replies with letters of her own and sometimes sends books and nice things.

Today I receive another letter from her. Isn't it funny that having phones we carry around in our pockets, this is how she and I communicate? In it she tells me that she has found someone, that she is in love, and when I turn around the page to see the name of the fortunate man my jaw almost falls to the floor, because it's Mr. Thornton!

Slowly small glimpses start making new sense. Now I know why he seemed so annoyed that I hadn't mentioned Margaret when I asked him for a job (at the Black Dog, right after he hired me), and why she left something of her father for him. Or so it seems. I'm not sure.

Phil doesn't seem shocked at all by the news, even seems to think of it as normal. He explains me that once he had asked Mr. Thornton why he always took lessons with Margaret's father and not with Margaret herself, to which Mr. Thornton had replied that it was because he, Phil, was the better student so he had the prettier teacher.

How this links to them getting together in Phil's mind, I don't know, but he shrugs a little and then asks if we'll be seeing more of Margaret. So we write her back congratulating her and asking if she's heard Marlborough Mills is in the process of reopening, and if she's moving back to Milton. We really hope so!

* * *

_Edith:_

Henry and Margaret join us for a light dinner in a restaurant after going to the cinema. They seem closer now than ever before, which is quite contradictory I think, but everyone seems alright.

We're sitting and enjoying our drinks when Henry clears his throat lightly.

-"_My friends, I have an announcement to make_", and he looks down for a moment. "_I've met somebody_" and he takes a breath, "_his name is Peter... this is why I missed your dinner party, Edith. I hope you'll forgive me_" he adds with a sly grin. "_It's quite worth it_".

Henry seems relaxed. He's less sharp in his interventions but not boring, he's just more himself. I'm not sure I like this Henry better but as Ian says, we'll have to live with it.

-"_I'm sorry you're the only one still single_" I tell Margaret truthfully, to which she smiles playfully.

-"_Matter of fact, I'm not single anymore either_" says Margaret and laughs to our faces of shock. Well, my face of shock. Henry and Ian keep it to themselves. But Margaret has been seeing someone right under my nose and I didn't notice? Who could that be?

-"_John Thornton of Milton_" she answers my unspoken question giggling and blushing like a school girl.

-"_Mr. Darcy? How nice_" Henry says, and it hurts me that Henry knows more about them than I do, but during this evening of revelations it becomes clear that Henry knows only a little bit more. Henry doesn't have much of a plan with Peter, who apparently has been out of the closet for quite long; they'll simply test the waters and play along. Margaret, instead, is going back to Milton and wants to live with this man, wants to live with him before marriage, and the certainty she has that everything will work out fine is just impressive.

At first I confess I have mixed feelings - Margaret, my cousin, my confidante, my roommate of so many years, loves someone I just met once, almost a complete stranger to me. Her life is taking a road that leads her far from my own and I can't be too happy. But at the same time she is glowing with happiness, my brainy cousin Margaret is head over heels with someone who loves her back, and after the hard couple of years she has weathered it would be mean and disgusting of me (not to mention impossible too) not to be happy for her.

I tell her so and she hugs me, and I have mixed feelings no more.

* * *

August, 14th_  
_

_Frederick:_

I'm back from a long day out with prospective investors (in August in Cádiz... incredible) when the phone rings and Dolores answers. "_For you_" she gestures and goes back to having drinks with Mr. West, who came for dinner.

This is a conversation I'll remember to my last day.

-"_Frederick Hale_" I say, my standard reply when I don't know if the conversation will be in Spanish or English.

-"_Mr. Hale, Frederick?_" says a male voice in English, "_John Thornton here_".

-"_John!_" I exclaim glad to hear him but apprehensive about the reason for this call. "_How are you? Everything alright?_"

-"_Yes... Frederick, I am calling you about Margaret_", and he pauses for what it feels like hours, and my stomach contracts in fear something bad has happened, "_Look, I am in love with your sister, I want to ask her to marry me, and as her closest relative I want to have your blessing first_".

I hadn't seen this coming. Dolores is looking anxiously at me and Mr. West's eyes are on me too.

-"_Frederick, are you there?_" the voice asks, John's, my future brother-in-law. "_I'm sorry if this takes you by surprise, it all happened a little all of a sudden, I know, but let me assure you that my intentions are honorable_".

It's truly old fashioned to ask someone for his sister's hand and state their intentions are honourable, then again it strikes me that John, who's probably called my sister "Miss Hale" until maybe yesterday, is kind of formal. Which is not a bad thing in itself, of course, and if my sister approves who am I to say otherwise?

-"_John_" I finally found my voice back, "_yes, I'm a little surprised here. But of course, if she says yes, you have it. You have my blessing_" this sounds so strange, Dolores eyes pop and Mr. West grins broadly, "_have you asked her already?_"

-"_No, I haven't, but hopefully it won't be a big surprise for her. I was thinking about doing it in the next few months, after we've figured out some logistics_." His tone changes slightly to a more practical approach._ "By the way, do you happen to know her ring's size?_" He's the same kind of pragmatist my sister is, they'll get along fine.

-"_Ahh... no, I don't_", darn it, _"just let me get back at you with that in a couple of days. Well... good luck and congratulations_".

We say goodbye quickly, the whole conversation lasting less than five minutes. Mr. West and Dolores have caught the gist of it but my wife wants details.

-"_John Thornton will propose Margaret marriage. He asked for my blessing_", I say simply. "_I had no idea they had something going on, did you?_" I ask them.

-"_At long last that man opened his eyes!_" Mr. West exclaims. "_When I was in Milton with your father it became clear to me that Margaret had feelings for him, but he was always looking elsewhere. Your father thought the opposite, though._"

Dolores frowns and smirks, a gesture typical of hers aimed at pointing out that I've missed something obvious.

-"_But didn't you see them at Edith's dinner? Whenever they got near each other the air sizzled! Sparkles flew!_" Dolores' hands illustrate her words. "_Especially from him; he was saying that he had lost his business and he would smile because he was talking to her. Who in his right mind would do that?_" I too was there and remember it differently, but I'm not arguing with Dolores over that. "_And your sister blushed the moment he arrived, and it wasn't because of the heat!_"

Dolores holds her hands together in a moment of theatrical rapture and then turns to Mr. West.

-"_So, you met him before. What can you tell us about this mysterious John Thornton?_"


	60. Back in Milton

November, 30th

_Margaret:_

The past four months have been hectic - so many things crammed themselves into just fifteen weeks that in retrospect seems to have been much longer a lapse. It is hard to believe that only six months ago my life was so different, so dull and boring and self centered. I couldn't have possibly anticipated the incredible turn it took that summer night when John simply showed up at Edith's dinner, and that lunch two days later that prolonged itself for the rest of the weekend.

Sometimes I feel like we're still at that lunch. And sometimes I can hardly remember what life was like before John kissed me under the dusky sky at Postman's Park, what it felt not being able to call him on a whim or not holding him when we met. Not that it matters now, of course, it's just that I feel that kiss marked the moment when it all really began.

John went back to Milton and has visited London just once; it's been me who's racked up air miles on planes from London to Greater Manchester. The first time I stayed in a hotel, but then I simply rented a furnished two-bedroom flat. John has a key and goes often; he says it's because it's closer to the Mills but I suspect he likes being there.

I met Hannah Thornton, my future mother-in-law, whom I wish I had met before. She and John are a lot like each other in character (and a bit in looks too), and getting to know her makes me feel even closer to John. I also met Fanny and Robert, my future sister-in-law and her husband and their little son Leo, who are very nice but quite different to John and Hannah. Maybe appearances are deceptive or maybe it's the complex nature of the human soul. Hannah offered me her home but I declined hoping that I wouldn't hurt her feelings, and I think John interceded for me there.

I'm getting involved with the Milton Chamber of Commerce's Committee on Social Welfare, finally getting something quite like a job in my area of studies - it's not a paid position but currently that's not of foremost importance for me. Policy making is quite complicated, the equilibrium of the forces very delicate, but it's where I like to be. After much discussion and planning we created a plan for funding adult learning scholarships, and Bessy will probably be one of its first beneficiaries. This fund allows her and another employee to work half day each and attend classes in a technical school. So far it only exists in paper but it holds promise.

Marlborough Mills Repair Shop is scheduled to reopen its doors next Monday with most of its previous employees, many of whom have been attending training courses on new technologies. I have tried to understand exactly what it is all about but I confess I have a hard time with it. John laughs and says I shouldn't worry much, and then proceeds to showing me his most basic books on machines, the ones he's had since he was a child. Oh John, you would have been so happy during the industrial revolution!

Most of the time I feel somewhere between pure contentment and sheer bliss but there are also a few rare moments of utter despair. I believe it's residual grief, the sad fact that I miss my parents and I wish they were here with me. I try to find comfort in the thought that they would be happy for me but it makes me cry a lot instead.

And I also suspect that these tears have to do with John, with the fact that I can be vulnerable around him and not always have to be the strong one. That, even if he doesn't really understand why I'm crying and that he absolutely hates seeing me in such state, he doesn't try to distract me from my grief by taking me shopping or saying nonsense. He doesn't say a thing; he just holds me, kisses the top of my head and gives me his handkerchief, and after the worst has passed he makes some tea. It feels like I'm finally completing the cycle of mourning, is such thing exists, where the only piece missing was John.

I love him so much.

* * *

December, 31st

_John:_

Margaret has moved permanently to Milton. She still keeps her very pretty home in London but most of the time she's here, coming home with me, going to bed with me, waking up every morning next to me. The sense of wonder doesn't wane.

Sometimes it feels like a fairy tale, borrowed time until lights are up and the movie finished or the last word of the book puts an end to it, until the next minute comes, and the next hour and next evening and she's still here, and there are things to do which always have to do with her, and I realize that this is not a fairy tale, just a wonderful time in my life I'm living to its fullest.

It is funny to remark, I think, that living life to its fullest doesn't involve anything in particular other than lack of regret. I got rid of a heavy burden I didn't know I was carrying; it was liberating to finally come into terms with my father's death and everything it entailed, to forgiving and forgetting Chloe, to every unsavory and unpalatable truth I've had to face because they lead me to Margaret. In this life where chaos and disorder reign, I got her. It cannot get any fuller than this.

We're spending this New Year's holiday in Edinburgh, a city I've visited often but Margaret hasn't. We had dinner at the hotel and then, closer to midnight, went off to the streets to see the fireworks. We're surrounded by people in thick coats, just like ourselves, and everyone starts counting down. In a flash I remember last year's eve, and I smile to my old lovelorn self who wouldn't have dared to hope to have so much only twelve months later.

-"_Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. HAPPY NEW YEAR!_"

* * *

January, 1st

Margaret spins around and I kiss her, and then I pull away just a little while I fish the box from my right pocket, flip it open and ask her:

-"_Would you marry me?_"


	61. Epilogue

June, 24th

_John:_

The day Margaret Hale became my wife was unforgettable and one of the happiest of my life.

What made it so memorable wasn't the ceremony, which was a lot like my first one and every one I've ever attended. My vows, they weren't insincere, but they could hardly convey the depths of the feelings and commitment I have for Margaret. It was her first time and they weren't tarnished for her (she loves that word and pronounces it in a particular way), so she remembers it differently.

That the bride looked gorgeous wasn't exceptional, either. She wore a nice white dress which by my suggestion had been designed after a blue dress she used to own, or so I was lead to believe. It didn't really matter. Margaret was radiant and would have looked wonderful in a potato sack. Of course I'd never voice those thoughts - I might not be refined but I know it would hurt her feelings. Besides she did look magnificent and I told her so.

My friend Daniel liked to say that nothing can be easier for a man than getting married: you just have to show up on time and do as told, and I agree with him. I wore a morning suit and laughed at the jokes other male guests seemed compelled to tell me - the inane ones, the obscene ones, the predictable ones. I drank champagne, a beverage whose virtues and subtleties are lost on me since I seldom taste it, ate microscopic items of food, shook hands with everybody and stood close to my bride.

Inspiration struck during the reception to go out of the script, something the wedding planners seemed to loathe disproportionately, I thought. Margaret was getting ready to toss her bouquet when I asked her to hand it to me, just for a moment: I plucked two yellow roses, put them in my inner pocket and handed the bouquet back. In spite of eliciting a collective aww from the female audience (not an exactly enjoyable moment), it provided me with a good first anniversary gift which Margaret still keeps.

The best thing about wedding receptions, if you ask me or probably any groom, is that you can sneak out. Margaret looked a little tired so I took her hand in mine, lead her off the reception and up to our room. It's what happened there what made it so special.

I took off my clothes and sat on the bed to watch my now wife carefully remove her jewelry - some valuable items were loans and she didn't want anything scratched or damaged. I watched her wiping the makeup off her face and letting her long, raven black hair loose. She asked for help with the dress: in my many years of helping this lady out of her clothes - a task I excel at for the sake of speed and ulterior motives that do not concern the immediate fate of the garments, the wedding dress was remarkably challenging but summarily defeated.

With her face clean and in her underwear I then noticed that she looked very tired.

-"_I have something for you_", I told her while planting a kiss on the top of her head, "_how about a hot bath and a foot massage?_"

She smiled against my chest and looking up replied,

-"_I have something for you too: I think I'm pregnant_".

She was right, of course, and some seven and a half months later I became a father for the first time. Being with Margaret in the delivery room made me revisit my notions about women and the weaker sex, which was probably said by a man who never witnessed birthgiving. She pushed like a pro and held herself together like a queen while I was paralized by fear, hardly able to remember what I'd been told to do and too busy trying not to show it. That she thanked me afterwards for my cooperation and cool headed attitude during the delivery indicates that, sometimes, the habit of hiding emotions can come in handy.

And my child... you think you know what it is to love until you hold those seven pounds of flesh, bones and wrinkled pink skin that are your firstborn son, and then you realize that you knew nothing. Even your love for your wife seems selfish and calculated next to the feelings that wash over you like a hit wave, and probably nothing you ever experienced before compare to the mix of exhilaration and utter fear that will make you laugh and cry at the same time.

And the funny thing is, you think that you can't possibly feel that for another person but you are wrong. You timidly try for a second child hoping for a little girl but you get a pocket sized version of the Incredible Hulk instead. You learn several things then: that kids are awfully resilient and not as fragile as you first thought, and that you don't have to spread thin the love you had for your first one: your heart seems to grow bigger and all the love you pour into your wife and son reflects and grows, embracing all four of you, and you come to the conclusion that's what families are made of. Family man becomes the most wonderful hat you've ever worn.

You think you're done with diapers and plan for the first family holiday when life sticks out its tongue and blows a raspberry, and one upset stomach and a rush to the hospital reveals that your wife is pregnant, again, and this time it's twin girls. Your woes so far pale in comparison to the six months of sleep deprivation and complete insanity that ensue, but somehow you survive. Your wife survives. Your marriage survives. The older children survive. And life goes on.

The next two decades or so were filled to the brim with blooming business (I finished paying her back before her thirtieth birthday) mingled with open swimming classes, birthday parties and Christmas mornings, detective work to find matching socks and who spilled the orange juice on the leather couch, laughs and tears, broken hearts and burst zits, school tests and driving lessons, and a home full of noise that grew a little quieter when someone left for college or to live on their own.

Our friends' lives were quite full too. Bessy Higgins rose through the ranks of Marlborough Mills to become head of human resources, her ability to spot talent and cut through crap unparalleled by anyone I've ever worked with. Philip Higgins became Milton's prodigal son: he kept drawing and took courses on animation, went to Hollywood and now works for a big studio and earns a big paycheck. Higgins couldn't be prouder of her son.

Fanny and Robert were married for nearly twenty years, until his death. Nobody expected their marriage to be so solid but it was, and a few years after he passed away my sister remarried, this time a man ten years her junior and with five children of his own. Again to everyone's surprise, Fanny rose to the challenge and found happiness in an unusual situation.

Edith and Ian divorced and remarried a few years later. Their children married and had children of their own, their lives, as Margaret likes to say, safely scripted and funded. Henry had two longtime partners and died of a heart attack a few years ago.

There were hard times, too. My mother's death after a short illness was surprisingly difficult for me. Frederick and his wife died in a car accident when he was fifty years old and left Margaret devastated. Our children's healths gave us a scare or two we'd love to forget, but sometimes the memory of those agonizing hours spent in waiting rooms just comes back.

Our own marriage didn't always sail smoothly... would it ever be possible with two stubborn people like us? We hit a particularly rough patch when Margaret was going through her menopause. She couldn't sleep, hot flashes made her very uncomfortable, gained weight quickly and was very irritable. I tried to make it her easier for her but actually, I lived in the fear that after all the changes in her body settled she wouldn't want to be with me anymore.

One particular afternoon I found her in our bedroom, looking critically at herself in the mirror and seeming displeased with what she found there.

-"_I still think you're beautiful_" I said truthfully while attempting to reassure her.

Wrong words, Johnny boy.

-"_It's not always about you, you know?_" she snapped, her eyes gleaming. "_You don't look a day over forty-five yourself_" she snorted, "_I'm so dry and brittle I'm like old parchment. Look!_", she raised her left hand, "_I scratched my knuckles with a drawer four days ago and this wound is still open._" It did look as if had been just done. I tried to say something but she was on a roll. "_Oh please, just go. Leave me alone!_"

I left the room in that state of defeated bewilderment I always experience when I can't understand what Margaret is going through. But the facts were, she had a scratch on her hand and there was a curative ointment in the bathroom cabinet, so I went there to fetch it not sure of what to do once I got it. I got back to the bedroom door and heard Margaret's voice faintly saying, "_Oh, not again_".

Tossing my misgivings aside I opened the door carefully and entered the bedroom, only to find Margaret's dress on the floor and her in her undershirt and tights, sitting on the bed with her elbows on her knees and her face resting on her hands. There was a flush creeping on her shoulders and neck, and when she raised her face to me I saw her forehead was beaded with sweat.

I knelt before her, patted dry the moisture with my handkerchief and reached for her scratched hand. Having children taught me that basic treatment for scratches and bruises always require a light kiss on the affected area first, so I put my lips there and said the magic words, "_Heal soon_", and then I smeared the ointment.

Margaret made a strange noise, and when I looked up I found her eyes brimming with tears.

-"_Are you crying because this hurts?_" I asked.

She shook her head. I tried again.

-"_Is it because you're hot and uncomfortable?_".

Wrong again.

-"_Is it because you're not young anymore?_".

Another shake of the head with tears streaming down now.

-"_It's because I told you to get out. I hate being rude to you_" a feeble smile stretched her lips. "_I'm sorry, John. It's not your fault that I'm going through crappy times, you know?_" She closed her eyes and opened them again, the anger gone and just sadness in its place. "_I love you_".

Margaret once said that hope was the lack of absolute certainty bad things have. In spite of my fears during that difficult time there was hope and just like that day of summer when I simply crossed paths with Frederick Hale, the fates smiled at me again.

I would have thought that going back to just the two of us would be like turning back the clock to when Margaret returned to Milton but I was wrong. Grandchildren like to come and sleep over, adult children drop by often, and this house can be as raucous - or even more, than it was when six people called it home. There was another big difference, consisting of time of leisure: to travel or to stay home, together. We adapted admirably to what my late father-in-law would call "old age unemployment", which was - still is, a very good time in our lives. Maybe not so energetic and with a few unforeseen limitations, but still to be lived to its fullest.

And today I turn seventy-five years old and there is going to be a big party downstairs in my honour.

My lovely Margaret has aged with me, our heads slowly but steadily getting whiter every year and our laugh lines mirroring each other's. Our bodies have grown old and soft and wrinkled, and proximity and love have made them two parts of the same thing, two old trees that have grown into each other, fingers that intertwine often. It's been almost four decades since that night I kissed her mouth for the first time, and that first morning I woke up with her head on my shoulder. I've been in love with her for forty years, my beautiful swan who's always brought out the best of grumpy old me. The thought sometimes still dazzles me.

A knock on the door is followed by her head peering in, that familiar sparkle of mischief dancing on the corners of her dark eyes.

-"_Still primping for your grand entrance?_", she asks while she glances assessingly my attire.

Actually I was only changing my shirt but to her comment I do the mimics of combing my hair and applying powder to my face, the kind of physical humor my grandchildren adore and makes them laugh like crazy.

-"_You're so handsome_" she says while she bites her lower lip enticingly. I still feel some sort of amazed pride when Margaret compliments my looks.

-"_Come on_" I say lowly and stretch my hand, which she takes with a smile and responds to the slight pull coming into my arms. "_Happy birthday, Margaret_" I say and I kiss her, and then she buries her nose in the crook my neck and takes a deep breath that makes me ticklish.

-"_Delicious_", she says.

* * *

A/N: I would like to thank again five readers for their comments while the story was being written: user TheBlackSister (Beta Reader for quite a few chapters), user fia-blue (formerly exquisiteimperfection), user ArtnScience, Michelle (user allboysshouldhavelonghair), and guest valkscot.

Did you like it? If you read the original book, what do you think about this adaptation? Which parts did you enjoy more and which ones did you like less? I'd love to hear from you, don't be shy and leave a comment or pm!

Thank you for reading me, n-p


	62. Not a chapter

Fanfiction . net explicity says one should't use the chapters to write notes and comments but my background in science makes me really want to write this "Not a Chapter", in hopes to kindle a discussion or two, share a few ideas that stayed in the pipeline, and avoid anyone thinking of the word "plagiarism".

As I've mentioned a few times before, I am not a native English speaker. Spanish is my only first language, the one whose grammar of my thoughts use, the one that works as cultural sieve to my sensibility; the only one I spoke until well into my teens. English and French are firm second languages in the machinery of my mind and there isn't much I can do about it.

It was first disheartening and then eye opening to come into terms with the fact that try as I may I will never be able to master those languages, and writing this piece in English is, in some senses, a fool's errand. Dialogues and situations may sound jarring, protracted or simply wrong, not matching the characters I wanted to create. This frustrates me to no end, so I tried to focus on plot instead. I hope it worked out well for you.

The Spanish version has, at the moment this is being written, only two readers. I chose English to reach a wider audience, which at the moment I finish publishing this Modern Take I estimate to be somewhere from fifty to seventy-five people. Every reader is important in his or her own individuality, but it's also true that low number of visitors makes one wonder if it's worth the effort.

* * *

**Style:**

The original novel is narrated by an omniscient third person. In my view this style has two big drawbacks: 1. It's a little bossy, not allowing the reader to draw her/his own conclusions about each character, and 2. It must explicit nuances of relationships. It can be done wonderfully, of course, but I don't feel I'm up to that challenge and that it would take many words to do, particularly when relationships are not reciprocal (Margaret and Edith; John and Daniel). This is why I preferred the first person, and I quite randomly chose a few characters to have voices and a few others not to (most notably, Henry).

I thought my idea to be original but halfway writing this story I found out it had already been done in the novel "Rules of attraction" by Brett Easton Ellis. Oh well, much better then. An established writer found out it can be done and that it works. Thank you, Mr. Ellis!

In my first drafts we didn't get to hear John's thoughts until the very end of the story, but when I started publishing I realized it would be very much Mr. Darcy of him (in Pride and Prejudice every time Elizabeth realizes about how wrong she's been about Mr. Darcy the reader is forced to reread the past chapters). It would have shed new light to most of the events related before, giving them new meaning, and I thought it was not a good idea for fan fiction.

Correct me if I'm mistaken here, but I think that readers of fan fiction mostly like to read new things about their favorite characters and not just be left in the dark and guessing with what they already know. Still, I didn't want to write again John's reaction after being rejected. Chapter "Mother and son" is just masterful!

The problem with choosing this style is that my shortcomings as an ESL speaker are more obvious. My guess is that this must have had British readers setting their teeth on edge, but that's just gut feeling from me (or common sense, actually).

* * *

**Themes:**

The original novel has several layers and deals with many topics, some of which are still current, some are very far from my own personal experience, and some are old but can be updated.

Religion is one subject that appears time and again but here I avoided it altogether in hopes to respect it. My Mr. Hale is not a minister but a scholar; my Mrs. Hale is deeply spiritual but her religion is never stated. This is where my own personal story makes itself glimpse through my words, or lack of them.

The north and south relationship stated in the title, which pretty much sums up the essence of the conflicts between Mr. Thornton and Margaret at the beginning of the book is another topic I would have liked to but couldn't get into. I know England is a large country and its areas still have distinct sounds and idiosyncrasies, but I don't really know how to be truthful here. This is why I had Margaret to have been educated in a shielded environment (boarding school and women's only college) and so have a stark contrast with her new environment and especially John, but still I think I might have sounded a little judgmental and (horror of horrors) stereotyped in my depiction of her ideas at the beginning of the story.

If I happen to have a former boarding school and/or women's college student among my readers: I hope you didn't find my ignorance offensive.

Class conflict is one amazing, truly outstanding topic of the original story, which has evolved in this past century and a half (think this was written before Marx and Engels' ideas) so it needs a little updating. I think it's fair to think that issues pertaining to women (or parents in general), and/or new immigrants in the workplace could take its place. I used women and very lightly, but I truly think it can be done really well and truthful to the original.

Human relationships is a timeless subject, and I think the novel deals very well with how the characters (especially Mr. Thornton) experiences love, passion and despair. I think that needs little updating, or none at all. However, I would have liked to see a little more into other characters, who, in my view, are depicted very superficially.

Marriage is the one topic that's completely outdated in my view. Discussing marriage for love or convenience just doesn't fit modern literature in western cultures (not that it doesn't happen, but it would require moving our characters to other geographical setting).

* * *

**Inspiration:**

I drew inspiration from a thousand sources to create the characters and situations of this piece. The obvious one is the original novel, "North and South" by Elizabeth Gaskell.

For personal views and stories I'd credit blogs PostSecret and Letters Of Note. Margaret's views on being adopted are based on a message sent by someone named Candace and published on PostSecret during July 2012.

For the male characters' voices (Daniel Donaldson, John Thornton, Frederick and Richard Hale) I thought of movies based on Nicholas Hornby's books, as well as websites AskMen and Art of Manliness.

For Daniel's voice I thought of Greg Wyshynsky's team at hockey blog PuckDaddy, and Howard Wolowicz from The Big Bang Theory.

In early drafts Daniel described his friendship with John using Michael Landsberg's words in a heartwrenching piece in memory of hockey player Wade Belak: "_Despite our many differences, we bonded right away, a friendship based on a mutual ability to make the other laugh. Men show contempt with insults and affection with harsher insults. Wade and I had a no limit, no safe area, no boundaries and never hurt feelings. I loved him for that. And I know he felt the same way._" Most of Daniel's first drafts didn't make the cut to the final version and this is the only one I regret.

For Richard Hale and Mr. West I thought about Javier Marías books, particularly "Corazón tan blanco" y "Mañana en la batalla piensa en mí" ("A heart so white" and "Tomorrow in the battle think on me"). I didn't take details, just thought about them.

Adam West's humor is based on Garrison Keillor's books and radio show, "A Prairie Home Companion". We don't hear his thoughts but the moment he arrives Margaret says "_They threatened to challenge me to play scrabble to death, or to sleep - whichever came first_". I imagine Keillor saying a thing like that.

Richard Hale's comment "_This is why this part of England is called Darkshire_" was inspired by a post by blogger Jane Brocket (Yarnstorm), fittingly titled "north and south".

John's words of admiration for Margaret, the first words we hear straight from him, are based on hockey journalist Risto Pakarinen (From the desk of Risto Pakarinen): "How I kneed her". These words are wonderful: "_There she was, this young woman with a great hair and a posture that defined confidence. I had never spoken to her (before...) But she didn't go unnoticed. Not with the way she carried herself_".

John's views of the world and his attitude towards Margaret, in which love manifest itself as an urge to fix whatever is wrong with her life if it's in his hands, are based on a beautiful piece by blogger Jon Armstrong (Blurbomat): "The second time around", in which he discusses his wife's depression (note: I've just checked it and he seems to have edited it taking out the parts I remembered best... oh well). John's description of his father's depression, retold by Daniel, as a "_soul-eating disease_" are words by blogger Heather Armstrong (Dooce) in the piece titled "Drama".

The last we hear from him, his thoughts on being a parent, are heavily inspired on Jeff Atwood (Coding Horror): "On parenthood", and the comments left by users.

I'm a big fan of Mad Men's Don Draper; I drew inspiration for Bessy and John's relationship in Peggy Olsen and Don Draper. It's not well developed but it would have followed those lines.

For the female characters' voices I thought a bit of myself (ha!). I pictured Edith Shaw as having Gwyneth Paltrow's charisma and used articles of her website (Goop) for her voice and details of her personal life. Bertha Dixon and Maria Hale are shamelessly based on people I know (who, incidentally, don't know each other). Bessy Higgins is the one who sounds more like me. I tried to have Margaret based as much as possible on the original Margaret, although I hoped to give her a more 21st century voice.

I attempted to give Sylvia Bell an artist's voice, she's based on interviews I've read and heard of ballet dancers. Her story, a young single mother giving up her baby for adoption, becoming (sort of) famous and reuniting many years later was inspired by Irish actress Sinéad Cusack (she played Mrs. Thornton in the BBC version) and Canadian singer songwriter Joni Mitchell's own real stories. Some of her thoughts are inspired, although I'm embarrassed to admit this because of the difference of quality of the source and my version, on Kate Inglis' writings (Sweet and Salty), but none in particular.

The writing of the chapter "One night with two suns" is based on the letter by Anaïs Nin (Letters of Note): "Sex does not thrive on monotony" and the film "Lucía y el sexo". I heard the music of that film, by Alberto Iglesias, while I wrote the chapter. The words "she is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen" and "her body engloves mine" were inspired by the novel "More than love letters" by Rosy Thornton (which in turn was inspired by North and South itself).

Margaret's words "Life is unspeakably kind" were taken from Kristan Higgins' "Fools rush in".

I first heard of Postman's Park in the film "Closer" but I actually remembered about it thanks to a post by Mike Dash (The Smithsonian's Blogs: Past Imperfect): "On Heroic Self-Sacrifice: a London Park Devoted to Those Most Worth Remembering", and the unlikely titled tourist guide "Nothing to see here".

* * *

**Character and plot changes and adaptations:**

I had Margaret to be an adoptive daughter for two purposes: to explain the difference of temperament with the rest of her family, and her receiving a sudden inheritance. I just don't think it's believable that an old friend of your father just leaves you a heap of money because he liked your face - sounds like there were favors exchanged and I don't like that. The character traits part works well in fiction but if it were real life I'd say it's crap.

When John first meets the Hales he's so impressed by Margaret that he has the wallpaper of their new home changed for one of better taste. Here I had him just making a few calls behind scenes so they would get internet connection immediately instead of waiting for two weeks (which don't think it's too believable these days, anyway). It's not obvious and we still haven't heard his voice at this point, so it gets quite lost.

I gave John a secret desire to become a father to provide him with an extra plot device to relate to Bessy Higgins better (and to make him a little more appealing to us, readers, as if that was necessary - this is womens' fiction through and through). I hope it sounded realistic and smooth to you.

I only saw the first episode of the BBC adaptation (I'm not even sure how far I went into the second, if at all). What I saw was enough to second everyone out there who believes Richard Armitage's performance of Mr. Thornton simply perfect (also, his physical resemblance to Gaskell description is uncanny - correct that, downright spooky). There is, however, a dark note he brought to his performance I'm not sure it reflects in my piece. Only Bessy and Daniel are witness to John's less-than-nice moments, Margaret is too but she misunderstands them, so in all, John's personality is quite complex in his lights and shades and the style I chose (the many first person voices) doesn't truly show him. I think.

I felt it was unfair to the craft of being an actor in general, and to Armitage's in particular, to mix two characters as different as Mr. Thornton and Sir Guy of Gisborne just because they were played by the same individual. Maybe I'm on my own here, but I think the most outstanding qualities of each character are quite contradictory: while Mr. Thornton sees himself and his business as just another part of Milton's economic machinery, Sir Guy of Gisborne seems to be guided by greed and thirst for power. So one would selflessly aim for the greater good and the other just machiavellian to get his own desires meet... not a good comparison, then. I'm still thinking over that one.

Margaret here is a little older than the original, where she is even more remarkable and yet believable. This is based on Daniela Denby-Ashe, who was not as young as Gaskell's Margaret and whom I thought to be excellent (at least in the first episode) of BBC's series. I didn't use Denby-Ashe's physical appearance but the original one, which is remarked a few times through the book. I gave Margaret a college degree but couldn't give her a career and I'm sorry for that.

Sylvia Bell is one of the big changes I made so I could have the story unchanged. I took the last name from the original Mr. Bell, who's the one to make Margaret rich, and I named her Sylvia as an allusion to poet Sylvia Plath and the book "The bell jar". I've always thought she had to be an artist; a writer would have been too obvious for Margaret to realize about Sylvia's feelings in her body of work, and a dancer would have had the expression of her art too ephemeral. A painter may make it a little more open for interpretation for Margaret. To complete Mr. Bell's role as money manager I gave her a sentimental partner, Melanie (whom I've always imagined to be a lot like Martha Stewart). I needed Melanie to be a woman for the conversation where Sylvia first learns about John Thornton; I felt that description had to be made from a female point of view, to counterbalance the previous descriptions made by Richard Hale and Daniel's. I had no other reason to make them lesbians; perhaps just because lesbian women exist?

Daniel Donaldson is another big change that doesn't change a thing; I just think Mrs. Thornton being so close to her son wouldn't work well in a modern setting. Still, Daniel's role for most of the story is to provide a narrating voice that's not John's and when he does help the plot advance it's almost by accident. However, while he takes over Mrs. Thornton's role in most of the story, he made her necessary when we have John's point of view of what happened between he and Margaret. Daniel simply couldn't have been that person, and Hannah Thornton just imposed herself.

Bessy Higgins is the morphed character I liked best. As someone mentioned, it's good that she doesn't die and I gave her the plots involving Nicholas Higgins and the Boucher family, and while we don't get to see her a lot I tried to make her gutsy to counterbalance Margaret as a female strong character. But then I realized John deals with his own mother (we got only two glimpses of her and she really came out very easily), Melanie Sanders, Margaret and Bessy herself, so he's pretty much surrounded by strong women. Ops.

I gave Dixon a first name, Bertha, and had to adapt her being a servant to a loyal close friend. Long after I had published the chapters where she is introduced I thought she might have been a relative to Richard Hale (maybe a cousin or even a sister), who was school friends with Maria Hale and that's how the Hales first met. That would explain her familiarity with the Hale household, but that was just an afterthought.

I changed Edith's husband name from Sholto to Ian, because Sholto sounds really unusual these days. I made Sholto / Ian to be close friends and colleagues with Henry but not siblings, to make it a little less incestuous.

I made Henry Rowan gay and come out the closet just for the purpose of recreating John believing Margaret to be in a romantic relationship with someone who is close, but not just close "like that". In the original it's her brother Frederick, in my version is a gay Henry. The original Henry was probably quite straight.

Mr. Thornton Sr.'s suicide is not a source of shame in my piece but a result of a depressive crisis not discussed by his family, and understood differently by each member. It parallels the story of someone very close to me and I simply cannot pass judgment like the original book does.

Fanny Thornton's frivolity does not equal stupidity or meanness; matter of fact I believe the original one to have had quite a few tough abandonment issues and my modern take just gives them a name. Neither does Edith's self-centeredness, whose affection for Margaret is strong and true (I've been in Edith's shoes more often than Margaret's). Henry's lack of congeniality doesn't mean he's a prick or a loser; I thought these four characters deserved better treatment than they received in the original.

Anna Shaw is the only one I didn't improve but Margaret says at least something very good of her (being a good shopper, finding things in the right size, cut, color and style, which shows she's both generous and perceptive).

In the original story, when Margaret leaves Milton she sends John a book. For some reason I wanted it to be an inkwell. Why not a paperweight, a pen, a statuette or even another book? I have no clue, but the inkwell has been there since the first drafts. I even had to improvise the scene where the inkwell is introduced just for that purpose (which, by the way, is told by Mr. King-of-Denial Hale and has Margaret ogling John. Did you catch that one?)

I used sports as a means to showing the competitive side of the characters. I think it's a modern arena of interaction that didn't exist until quite recently, which is at the same very advanced (everyone abiding by rules, women and men in the same spaces) and very primitive too (come on, do I have to explain this one?)

The situations equalling the riot, the first marriage proposal and the whole affair of Frederick and the police inquest are really washed down in my version. I tried to instill them with some psychological tension but I'm not sure this story stands on its own, meaning, if a reader unfamiliar with the original would make any sense of it. Not sure at all.

* * *

**Plot twists I thought about but didn't use:**

Gaskell uses feminine adjectives for Mr. Hale at least 3 times in her story, so in an early draft I had Mr. Hale to be a closeted gay and Mrs. Hale to leave him. The first version of his funeral was told by Mrs. Hale and there she explained that he was in platonic love with someone else who had died before, but was not explicit. But I realized then that Mrs. Hale's death is quite important in the first plot and a divorce just wouldn't have worked as well.

I also thought about Margaret being somewhat of a specialist regarding domestic violence and to have Bessy Higgins killed by a violent boyfriend, but it was too dark and my attempts sounded unconvincing.

I thought of Margaret not giving John the money, just staying in Milton for a long time and going to his office to say goodbye, after which he'd go to her home and they would have a long conversation and she would declare his love for him. Then again, the challenge of sticking to the original was too enticing (and safe) to include a change like this one.

I also shifted the chronological order of events around quite a bit but Gaskell knew best.

I wrote a little scene where John leaves his class and chats with Margaret while she shows him out, and they both laugh and get very cuddly but it's immediately revealed that it's all in his imagination (an idea I developed in another story, "In the solitude of her room") but it didn't fit and wasn't too original. Instead I had John being a total mess by leaving Margaret midsentence at the pub (but following her home and keeping the straw of her drink), and being rude to her at the stadium (and regretting it and avoiding her from then on).

Unfortunately I had to leave out quite a few jokes. When John and Melanie meet for the loan, John jokes he's so sleep deprived and distracted that he almost signs the restaurant's menu instead the agreement. I also had him making some mime, wordless jokes to Margaret the first weekend they spend together, but they didn't fit well. You have no idea of how sorry I am for that.

* * *

**Conclusion:**

(We always need a conclusion)

North and South is a very strong novel containing many plot devices and character situations that can be translated quite well into other times, and probably other cultures. I would love to read a version happening right before First World War in which Margaret is a suffragette, or one during the sixties where Margaret is a bit of a flower girl and John is quite the opposite, but I'm too far from being able to write it.

Ball is in your court, people. Play or kill!


End file.
